LIBRARY 

University  of 

California 

Irvine 


AS 

E5 


THE    SOUL    OF 
AN     ARTIST 


THE    SOUL    OF 
AN     ARTIST 

TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    ITALIAN    OF 


E.   L.   MURISON 

WITH  AN 

INTRODUCTION  BY 
L.   D.  VENTURA 

Anima  mia,  mio  asilol 


PAUL    ELDER   AND    COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS,  SAN   FRANCISCO 


Authorized  Translation 


Copyright,  1905 

by  PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 

San  Francisco 


Entered  at  Stationers''  Hall 
Louden 


The  Tomoyt  Press 


TO 

LAWRENCE    DUDLEY 

MARQUIS    OF    MIDDLEFORTH 

WHEREVER    HE    MAY  BE 


FOREWORD 

//  was  a  work  of  duty  on  my  part,  who  derived 
a  great  consolation  from  the  reading  of  this  book  by 
Neera  —  a  countrywoman  of  mine — to  put  before 
the  translator  this  true  and  gentle  book.  It  was  a 
work  of  generosity  on  her  fart  to  gather  the  sighs 
of  a  lonely  soul,  to  understand  them  with  that  intui- 
tion which  has  neither  geographic  nor  moral  frontier, 
and  to  translate  them,  so  that  other  lonely  souls 
might  also  derive  consolation. 

A  romance  made  up  of  magnetic  atoms  in  the 
air  hovers  over  this  book:  a  whole  honest  romance 
of  sadness,  conceived,  transmitted  and  put  together, 
to  be  found  expressed  in  the  language  of  souls,  which 
has  only  one  alphabet. 

This  book  of  Neera  has,  according  to  my  idea, 
no  counterpart  but,  possibly,  Amiel's  Journal  In- 
time.  /  shall  not  say  here  fully  why  it  appeals  to 
me,  neither  is  it  necessary  for  the  translator  to  do 
more  than  to  present  the  book,  for  it  speaks  for 
itself;  it  will  be  clear  to  all  those  who  possess  to 
the  highest  degree  ideality  and  sentiment,  to  those 
for  whom  common,  every-day  life  is  not  the  last 
desideratum. 

Is  this  " Anima  Sola"  a  novel?  No.  An  au- 
tobiography? No.  A  poem?  No.  It  is  simply 
a  book,  in  the  amplest  signification  of  the  word,  a 


FOREWARD 

companion,  a  friend, —  exquisite  pages  of  thoughts,  of 
love,  of  life.  A  very  original  work  in  conception 
and  form,  it  elicited,  since  its  appearance  in  Italy  as 
well  as  in  Germany,  the  most  conflicting  criticisms. 
Pervaded  by  subdued  fervor,  it  is  a  refined  book 
which,  alas,  will  not  meet  with  the  delirium  of  the 
multitude :  yet  every  reader  will  find  amidst  the  many 
thoughts  expressed  something  of  personal  benefit,  and 
will  feel  its  peculiar  charm,  thus  leading  to  an  inter- 
est in  the  study  of  the  author,  a  woman  who,  with 
each  of  her  volumes,  gives  us  a  surprise  either  of 
idea  or  of  form. 

Foremost  among  the  Italian  writers  of  both 
sexes,  in  spite  of  the  advertisement  which  has  been 
lavished  in  the  wrong  direction  and  to  which  she  has 
a  strong  antipathy,  she  shares  with  the  best  writers 
of  Italy  the  healthy  privilege  of  writing  to  say  some- 
thing with  a  moral  and  practical  purpose.  Her 
work  is  signalized  by  a  constant  aspiration  towards 
the  new  and  towards  the  better.  She  has  treated 
the  novel  in  almost  all  its  forms,  realistic,  mystic, 
psychological;  she  has  written  pages  of  morals,  of 
poetry,  of  sociology,  and  now,  with  "  Un  Anima 
Sola,"  she  goes  out  of  whatever  is  known  and  seen 
and  whatever  has  been  read  into  a  new  field.  Never 
before,  as  in  this  novel,  has  she  touched  the  high 
idealities  of  life,  never  has  she  surpassed  herself  as 
a  stylist. 

When  this  book  was  published  in  the  German 
translation,  the  cover  bore  the  portrait  of  Eleanora 

ii 


FOREWARD 

Duse.  The  translator  hinted  by  this  at  the  possi- 
bility of  Neera  having  taken  Duse  as  a  model  of  bis 
heroine.  Possibly  Duse,  one  of  the  most  sensitive 
personalities  of  our  century.,  has  contributed  in  a  large 
proportion  to  the  composite  portrait  of  Neera  s  hero- 
ine, who,  for  me,  represents  in  one  person  the  soul 
of  many.  Blessed  those  who,  like  Duse,  can  live 
many  lives,  or  assimilate  the  feelings  and  the  precious 
sensations  of  souls.  She  can  check  her  own  misery 
living  in  the  remembrance  of  others.  The  theatre 
has  furnished  her  the  remembrance  of  many  lives 
that  she  has  impersonated,  and  she  can  ruminate  over 
the  hours  of  misery  consoled  by  instants  of  glory  — 
proud  of  having  awakened  the  conscience  of  others 
in  becoming  a  martyr. 

And,  since  we  are  on  the  subject  of  theatres,  and 
of  artists,  let  me  quote  Glatigny,  who  was  a  poet  and 
a  Bohemian  actor,  and  took  the  stage  as  a  compensa- 
tion to  life.  He  speaks  to  the  bourgeois,  showing 
his  rags: 

"Nos  habits  vous  font  voir  les  cordes  de  nos 
lyres."  And  Clartie  in  "  Brichanteau  Celebre" : 

"If  you  wish  to  continue  to  run  the  chance  of 
this  macabre  lottery  —  the  theatre — you  must  keep 
until  the  last  hour  the  love  of  your  art:  to  love  it 
for  its  success,  for  its  failures:  you  must  keep  until 
the  last  minute  your  love  and  faith  of  the  first  years, 
to  believe  in  that  which  exists  not,  to  believe  in  the 
dream  and  say  to  oneself  that,  in  its  distributive 
justice,  destiny  has  been  clement  if  it  has  given  you 


in 


FOREWARD 

one  minute  of  illusion :  illusion,  my  friends,  is  per- 
haps the  only  thing  which  permits  men  to  live  their 
own  lives." 

The  author  of  " Anima  Sola"  who  signs  with 
the  nom  de  plume  Neera>  in  private  life  is  Anna 
Zuccari,  wife  of  Signor  Radius.  She  is  a  Florentine 
by  birth,  a  Milanese  by  choice.  Among  her  best 
novels  are  "  Un  Romanzo,"  "  Vecchie  Catene" 
"Addio"  "II  Castigo"  "  Freccia  del  Parto"  "  Un 
Nido,"  "  Lidia,"  etc.  While  indulging  in  writing 
of  glorious  battles,  ignoble  victories,  and  of  the  throes 
of  a  soul  in  the  grasp  of  that  overpowering  passion, 
love,  she  is  very  domestic,  the  angel  of  her  home, — 
not  at  all  the  portrait  of  any  of  the  heroines  of  her 
books.  Personally  ten  years  ago  she  was  considered 
a  beauty,  tall,  with  brilliant  black  eyes  —  a  graceful 
figure,  and  a  woman  of  very  nervous,  sympathetic 
temperament. 

This  new  book  is  a  consolation  to  all  those  who, 
endowed  with  a  high  sensitive  nature,  are  obliged 
by  circumstances  to  live  alone,  and  to  keep  hidden, 
for  fear  of  deception  or  disillusion,  that  sacred  flame 
which  otherwise  would  have  shown  and  lighted  the 
road  to  a  hero. 

L.  D.  Ventura. 

San  Francisco,  October,  1905. 


IV 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE 

If  at  their  first  utterance  "thoughts  break 
through  language  and  escape"  how  warily  should  a 
translator  set  to  work!  Especially  difficult  is  this 
literary  chemistry  in  dealing  with  elements  so  rich 
in  quality  and  so  volatile  in  their  onomatopoetic 
power  as  the  Italian  where  sometimes  each  letter  is 
informed  with  sweetness  and  with  meaning.  'The 
proverb  "  traduttore,  traditore"  (a  translator ',  a 
traitor}  is  fitted  especially  to  this  tongue ',  not  only  from 
the  possible  paronomasia  but  from  its  exposition  of 
the  arduousness  of  matching  the  harmonies  and  sug- 
gestions of  even  the  most  ordinary  expressions  della 
lingua  dolce.  In  the  work  just  completed  I  have 
aimed  above  all  to  be  faithful  to  the  original,  and 
have  been  so  in  parts  almost  to  too  great  a  liter  alness, 
and  I  have  given  the  sense  of  the  author  always  even 
when  a  slight  perversion  might  have  lent  music  to  a 
period  and  given  more  satisfaction  to  the  ear.  For 
there  is  but  this  one  excuse  for  adding  another  volume 
to  the  already  overcrowded  book-shelves :  First,  that 
an  author  has  something  of  value  to  say,  and,  second, 
that  he  should  know  how  to  say  it. 

And  it  is  in  place  here  to  render  some  account  of 
the  purpose  of  this  translation.  The  labor  was 
undertaken  in  a  dark  hour  to  lay  the  ghost  of  a 
haunting  sorrow ;  for  "Anima  Sola  "  is  the  outpouring 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE 

of  a  lonely  soul,  and  had  in  its  very  name  a  prom- 
ise of  sympathy  and,  perhaps,  of  comfort.  'The 
time  and  effort  expended  had  at  least  a  temporary 
reward  of  forgetfulness,  and  it  is  my  hope  that  some 
one  else  may  profit  by  my  work  and  find  solace  in 
the  thoughts  here  transferred  to  English. 

E.  L.  Murison. 

July  12, 


VI 


THE    SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

When  between  the  world  and 
me  there  was  a  veil  of  clouds. 

I  am  about  to  undertake  something  very 
strange,  yes,  very  strange  for  me.  I  am  seated 
at  my  little  table  and  have  opposite  me  your 
chair,  that  chair  in  which  I  have  seen  you  seated 
so  many  times  and  which  now  is  empty,  yet  not 
absolutely  empty ;  there  yet  remains  a  little  of 
your  atmospheric  presence,  as  it  were. 

You  smile?  At  least  reserve  your  judgment. 
I  am  not  a  kttarata>  one  of  those  women  so  justly 
antipathetic  to  men.  I  am  not  writing  a  romance 
nor  have  I  a  public  expecting  my  pages.  I  do  not 
know  whether  these  will  number  ten  or  twenty  or 
a  hundred.  I  have  written  so  little  in  my  life! 

Do  not  discourage  me  then.  You  see  it  is  a 
great  proof  of  my  confidence  in  you,  my  thus 
selecting  you  as  interlocutor.  I  confess  this  is  a 
necessity  to  me,  it  would  have  been  impossible 
for  me  to  write  without  addressing  some  one  in 
this  manner.  How  do  the  romance  writers  man- 
age? I  cannot  imagine.  I,  for  my  part,  pretend 
to  speak  to  you  and  so  I  accomplish  my  purpose. 

But  there  is  something  else  strange:  Where 
are  you?  Do  you  still  live?  Is  there  a  chance  in 
a  thousand  that  you  will  ever  read  these  pages  ? 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

And  do  you  remember  me  ?  I  have  heard  it  said 
that  certain  planets  encounter  one  another  once 
in  the  long  course  of  ages;  and  so  may  we 
meet.  Should  I  print,  my  book  might  reach  you 
in  some  solitude  whither  you  have  withdrawn 
your  monastic  soul  disdainful  of  the  world.  But 
I  do  not  write  for  the  press,  and  I  do  not  believe 
that  my  heirs  will  give  themselves  the  task  of 
having  these  lines  published.  I  write,  then,  with 
almost  the  certainty  that  you  will  never  read  me. 

And  what  matter?  Have  you  ever  responded 
to  the  unquiet  interrogatories  of  my  soul?  It 
was  enough  for  me  to  speak  them  out  to  you ! 
There  is  a  dark  and  indefinable  fascination  in 
speaking  to  one  who  does  not  answer.  Is  it  not 
in  some  sort  like  the  prayers  murmured  at  the 
foot  of  the  cross?  To  the  Invisible  one  dares 
to  say  everything.  It  would  be  absurd  to  write 
a  romance  with  such  a  program,  but,  then,  since 
this  is  not  a  romance ! 

I  remember  one  day  in  my  early  years, — 
you  know,  those  sad  years  which  I  passed  so 
differently  from  other  women, —  I  had  not  yet 
loved,  but  like  those  buds  which  in  spring  make 
turgid  the  summits  of  the  trees,  my  heart  was 
swollen  with  a  passion  I  could  not  place.  An 
orphan,  without  affections,  solitary,  ignorant,  con- 
fided to  the  care  of  a  woman  even  more  ignorant 
than  I,  with  the  prospect  of  poverty  and  vulgar 
toil,  what  could  I  hope?  Nothing. 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

Without  knowing  them,  I  renounced  all  the 
joys  of  earth,  the  most  curious  thing  being  that 
the  renunciation  was  painless,  and  when,  in  my 
own  spite,  the  fire  of  youth  would  seek  an  outlet, 
instead  of  bursting  forth,  it  burned  within.  Do  I 
make  myself  clear?  The  growth  was  all  inward. 

Hear  what  I  did  one  day.  It  was  autumn  — 
my  aunt  made  me  pass  some  time  at  a  dairy-farm 
of  I  know  not  what  province,  I  know  only  that 
the  country  was  all  green,  the  hills  covered  with 
vineyards,  and  before  our  house  there  ran  a  little 
torrent  called  La  Versa.  I  was  alone  there  as 
everywhere.  A  stagnant  water  seemed  to  hold 
me  prisoner  within  the  confines  of  a  world  which 
I  knew  was  not  mine.  The  sentiment  of  protec- 
tion, that  security,  that  abandon  which  make  so 
sweet  the  life  of  children  in  happy  families,  all 
this  I  lacked,  nor  had  I  any  model  before  me, 
one  whom  I  could  trust,  could  love  intensely ; 
for  my  admiration,  the  prime  necessity  of  ardent 
souls,  I  had  no  objective. 

Everything  said  and  done  around  me,  the 
subjects  of  discourse,  the  material  interests,  the 
manner  of  judging,  the  pleasures,  the  sorrows, 
the  pastimes,  the  annoyances,  the  good  and  the 
evil,  all  left  me  so  indifferent  that  many  pro- 
nounced me  stupid,  others  heartless,  and  others 
again  proud.  And  I  was  self-reproachful.  Since 
all  agreed  to  blame  me  they  must  have  been  in 
the  right;  and,  at  the  same  time,  I  was  sure  I 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

was  not  wholly  in  the  wrong;  but  my  emotions 
were  like  objects  shut  up  in  a  box  to  which  there 
was  no  key.  I  knew  they  were  there,  but  how 
get  them  out? 

Thus  came  the  day  in  which,  finding  my 
heart  more  than  ever  o'ercharged,  I  succeeded  in 
escaping  surveillance  and  very  softly  opening  the 
house  door  I  turned  backwards,  taking  a  path 
which  led  to  the  mountains.  This,  too,  will  ap- 
pear singular  to  you,  but  everything  I  have  to 
tell  you  is  singular:  I  felt  then  for  the  first  time 
the  pleasure  of  living;  and  for  the  first  time  I 
observed  that  the  sky  had  many  gradations  of 
tender  blue  and  rose  suffused  and  veiled  by  the 
white,  palpitating  atmosphere;  and  the  trees 
seemed  alive  with  their  subdued  whispers,  with 
their  sweetly  evanescent  perfumes,  and  in  the  air, 
in  the  light,  even  in  the  shadow  there  was  a  soul. 

I  spread  wide  my  arms  and  holding  them 
somewhat  lifted,  I  continued  to  ascend,  ascend  — 
wonderful  sensation!  The  moment  I  was  alone 
my  isolation  ceased.  My  heart  swelled  in  a 
wordless  and  toneless  Bacchanal;  and  it  took 
wings;  and  all  that  sang  and  flew  about  me,  birds, 
butterflies,  flower-petals,  all  were  my  friends  and 
brothers. 

And  so  I  reached  the  hilltop,  so  light,  so 
happy  and  with  a  confused  desire  mounting 
through  all  my  being,  a  need  of  vent,  an  ardor 
which  for  the  first  time  broke  its  bounds,  almost 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

the  need  of  a  prayer,  which,  in  that  divine  mo- 
ment, seemed  to  me  must  be  granted. 

A  profound  joy  and  a  great  audacity  invaded 
me  looking  at  the  solitude  which  surrounded  me; 
that  air  and  that  heaven  all  for  me,  that  horizon, 
that  world  which  offered  itself  so  vast  and  so  all 
unknown  to  me  so  young.  No  image  of  terror 
mixed  with  my  festival. 

Erect,  embracing  in  my  glance  as  great  a  space 
as  possible,  my  brow  uplifted,  I  cried,  "God!" 
I  really  cried  it,  measuring  for  the  first  time  the 
pitch  of  my  voice,  marveling  that  that  cry  should 
fall  so  sweetly  down  the  green  declivity  without 
awaking  any  protest,  any  recrimination.  "God! 
God!  God!"  Three  times  I  said  it  and  listened. 
N  ature  listened  with  me  and  was  witness  of  the  rite. 
In  that  moment  I  had  my  spousal  with  some  one. 

Would  you  like  to  know  how  I  looked  at 
that  time?  Then  I  did  not  know,  but  now  I  can 
see  myself  as  I  then  was, —  tall  and  slender,  but 
not  flexible,  so  that  my  little  head  and  thin 
shoulders  and  my  still  childlike  arms  stiffened  to 
almost  an  attitude  of  continual  protest.  A  great 
lack  of  balance  there  was  between  my  form  hardly 
yet  molded  to  femininity  and  the  serious  pro- 
found expression  of  my  eyes  relieved  by  a  faint 
sad  smile.  When  later,  in  the  midst  of  an  ele- 
gant crowd,  at  a  feast  day,  there  reached  my  ear, 
pronounced  by  a  stranger,  the  first  compliment 

5 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

to  my  beauty,  it  seemed  so  strange  that  I  have 
never  forgotten  it.  It  was  said  that  my  eyes 
were  oriental. 

And  you  will  believe  me  when  I  confess  that 
it  was  not  the  vanity  of  the  praise  nor  the  stimu- 
lus of  coquetry  which  piqued  me  at  that  moment, 
but  a  subtle  spiritual  curiosity  to  know  which 
might  exercise  the  greater  power  upon  others, 
beauty  or  plainness,  joy  or  sorrow.  It  is  a  prob- 
lem which  has  always  preoccupied  me,  my  in- 
capacity to  enjoy  the  present  moment  such  as  it 
appears,  and  to  give  myself  up  to  it  with  that 
philosophic  sensuality  which  so  perfectly  isolates 
the  today  from  tomorrow  and  yesterday.  I  have 
never  had  the  fever  of  life ;  mine  has  been  rather 
a  semi-consciousness  broken  by  frequent  visions. 
Nay,  the  vision  itself  is  imposed  as  a  higher  state, 
as  a  refuge  and  a  salvation. 

Perhaps  magnetic  sleep  is  such,  perhaps  such 
the  trances  of  certain  poets  and  certain  saints.  If 
I  were  as  learned  as  you  I  could  formulate  some 
theory  of  my  sensations;  ignorant  as  I  am,  I  at- 
tempt to  describe  them,  but  I  feel  that  in  certain 
particulars  even  this  undertaking  surpasses  my 
powers.  Pity  me  and  try  to  comprehend  even 
what  I  do  not  know  how  to  express,  that  above 
all! 

I  have  sometimes  begun  to  laugh,  reading 
and  thinking;  and  more  often  have  I  wept.  But 
why  have  I  never  either  laughed  or  wept  with 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

others?  In  the  evenings  of  my  greatest  triumphs 
when  all  the  theatre  was  stirred  and  a  thousand 
hands  were  raised  to  applaud  me,  the  exterior  I 
was  moved,  but  my  true  I,  always  somnambulous, 
wondered  at  the  noise  and  sought  still  in  the 
darkness  its  internal  and  solitary  way.  In  truth 
I  tell  you:  There  is  one  within  me  who  will  have 
me  all  in  all. 

How  distant  is  that  day!  I  confide  these 
things  to  you,  because  you  too  were  born  a  twin ; 
you  too  will  never  find  that  companion  soul 
whom  all  seek,  according  to  the  Platonic  theory 
(a  theory  not  for  us),  to  the  moment  when  it  is 
ours  indeed  and  forms  one  soul  with  our  own. 
It  will  prevent  our  ever  giving  ourselves  com- 
pletely, though  loving  more  than  others  and  with 
greater  force. 

1  comprehended  this  at  once  the  first  time  I 
saw  you, —  do  you  remember  when? 

I  know  the  hour,  the  light,  even  the  various 
tints  of  green  which  the  trees  had  that  day  in  the 
Villa  Borghese ;  and  my  spiritual  state,  sad  and 
tranquil,  and  my  posture,  somewhat  weary,  seated 
upon  the  edge  of  the  fountain,  writing  a  name  in 
the  sand  with  the  point  of  my  parasol,  a  name 
which  was  not  yours 

The  villa  was  so  deserted  at  that  hour  that 
your  step  upon  the  dry  leaves  made  me  raise  my 
head  suddenly;  and  as  you  gradually  drew  near 
me,  in  your  figure,  in  your  face,  in  the  indefinable 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN   ARTIST 

color  of  your  eyes,  in  your  manner  of  looking 
at  me  and  in  that  of  your  stopping,  courteous, 
but  cold  and  slightly  disdainful,  I  recognized  you 
as  different  from  all  others  and  I  thought  with  a 
new  and  palpitating  sensation  of  intimate  sur- 
prise: "Who  may  this  be?"  And  as  if  you  had 
heard  my  question,  in  that  very  moment  you 
presented  yourself:  "  I  am  the  Marquis  of  Mid- 
dleforth." 

You  see  these  are  but  little  threads, —  is  it  not 
of  little  threads  that  all  webs  are  composed  ?  The 
webs  devoted  to  modest  and  familiar  uses,  those 
which  clothe  the  soldier  and  which  wave  above 
his  head  with  the  proud  name  of  banners,  those 
destined  to  struggle  with  winds  and  waves,  those 
which  cover  altars,  and  those  which  make  the 
sympathies  and  the  relationships  of  the  soul  are 
little  fragile  threads  likewise  wound  by  the  Un- 
known about  the  unconscious  distaffs  of  the  men 
and  women  to  whose  use  they  are  destined. 

A  few  days  before  at  Milan,  after  the  great 
fiasco  of  the  "Abbess  of  Monreal,"  I  had  received 
a  letter  signed  "  Marquis  of  Middleforth,"  in 
which,  setting  aside  the  failure  of  the  dramatic 
work,  the  unknown  writer  acknowledged  the 
power  of  sentiment  transfused  by  me  into  the 
character  of  the  Abbess.  I  did  not  doubt  for  a 
moment  that,  in  spite  of  the  distance  between  the 
two  cities,  you  and  the  unknown  correspondent 
were  the  same  person,  and  not  even  the  slightest 

8 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

suspicion  arose  in  me  that  you  might  be  other 
than  you  are,  a  man  to  be  trusted.  You,  then, — 
and  it  is  one  of  my  most  profound,  most  delicate 
joys, —  overcoming  the  repugnance,  usually  your 
sentiment  towards  actresses,  you  came  to  me, 
guided  by  that  invisible  thread  which  leads  the 
soul ;  you  did  this  in  a  manner  so  natural  as  to 
be  almost  absurd  to  others.  What  more  natural 
than  to  introduce  yourself? 

O  the  sweet  mystery  of  that  our  first  conver- 
sation !  You  began  at  once  to  speak  of  the  "Ab- 
bess of  Monreal,"  saying  that,  despite  its  great 
defects,  there  pleased  you  in  this  work  a  certain 
latent  ardor  which  I  had  known  to  render  almost 
to  perfection.  "Almost" — you  repeated — "for 
I  feel  within  me  an  ideal  stronger  and  more  com- 
plex." 

At  this  point  we  were  silent.  I  was  thinking 
that  I  could  not  then  explain  to  you,  then  or 
perhaps  ever,  by  what  means  the  character  of  the 
Abbess  had  awakened  within  me  that  anguish  of 
broken  illusions  which  you  would  have  desired 
stronger  and  more  complex. 

The  literary  success  of  the  Abbesse  de  Jouarre 
had  inspired  one  of  our  young  authors  with  this 
subject  taken  from  the  Spanish  Chronicles  at  the 
time  of  the  Moors.  Do  you  remember? 

A  girl  of  royal  stock,  stolen  from  her  native 
Africa  and  secluded  in  a  convent  of  old  Castile, 
grows  there  in  perfect  consonance  of  ideas  and 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

of  aspirations  with  the  sisters  that  surround  her; 
only  her  piety  is  more  ardent,  her  zeal  more  pas- 
sionate, her  prayers  more  poetic,  her  abstinence 
more  exalted  and  continuous.  In  the  country  of 
Saint  Theresa  and  Maria  Alacoque  the  young 
savage  was  a  marvel  of  sanctity. 

You  may  imagine  how  deeply  I  feel  this  situ- 
ation. I  see  her,  the  young  exile,  in  those  azure 
nights  made  delicious  by  the  jasmine  scent,  kneel- 
ing in  her  cell,  her  eyes  and  heart  turned  to  that 
mysterious  country  of  fascinating  and  distant 
records.  Made  Abbess  of  the  convent,  her  mys- 
ticism grows.  It  is  in  the  church  paved  with 
funereal  marble  or  in  the  wide  level  space  of  the 
garden  in  the  center  of  which  there  dominates  a 
cross  that  she  gathers  about  her  all  the  sisters 
every  night,  for  the  day  does  not  suffice  for  her 
mania  of  divine  love.  All  Castile  proclaims  her 
saint ;  from  the  most  distant  countries  there  is  a 
concourse  to  implore  her  benediction.  She  no 
longer  eats  or  sleeps  or  speaks;  etherealized,  she 
passes  her  days  in  ecstasy.  This  is  the  whole 
first  act  which  so  much  pleased  you,  while  the 
audience  could  not  dissemble  its  impatience. 

But  that  moment  of  revulsion,  when  upon 
the  cloistered  silence  there  fell  the  clamor  of  arms, 
and  the  howling  Moors  beat  against  the  doors  of 
the  convent!  What  was  my  countenance,  what 
the  expression  of  my  eyes  in  that  fulminating 
moment  of  revelation?  And  why  was  it  that, 

10 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

when  without  speaking,  moving  resolutely  towards 
the  sisters,  I  ran  myself  to  open  the  doors,  a  long 
applause  —  the  only  occasion  throughout  the 
drama — shook  the  theatre  from  pit  to  ceiling? 

We  discussed,  or  rather  you  did,  that  sudden 
transition,  that  apostasy  from  twenty  years  of 
conventual  devotion,  excited  by  the  unexpected 
return  of  voices,  of  clamor  and  tumult  of  warring 
men  which  moved  her  to  throw  herself  into  the 
arms  of  the  invaders  with  that  cry,  "O  my  Coun- 
try ! "  which  you  thought  vulgar,  which  to  me 
seemed,  instead,  so  profoundly  typical. 

Yes,  it  was  under  the  trees  of  the  Villa  Bor- 
ghese,  in  the  splendid  sunset  of  a  Roman  sky, 
that  you,  a  stranger,  said  to  me  that  you  could 
not  comprehend  that  invocation  to  a  fatherland. 

I  thought  that  you  must  always  have  been 
very  happy,  and  looked  closely  at  the  perfect 
form  of  your  head,  at  your  brow  upon  which 
eight  or  ten  scholarly  generations  had  set  the  seal 
of  sovereignty  and  impressed  upon  every  line  of 
your  countenance  an  infallible  distinction  of  race. 
A  few  moments  before,  you  had  told  me  that  it 
was  your  intention  to  tour  Italy  without  any  limit 
of  time  or  place;  you  were,  then,  rich  and  free, 
besides  noble  and  intellectual.  A  young  life  with- 
out struggle,  beautified  by  the  brightest  smiles  of 
fortune,  had  conducted  you  to  the  full  and  com- 
plete possession  of  your  rights  as  a  superior  man. 

And  again  silence  was  between  us,  after  these 

1 1 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

reflections.  The  evening  fell.  The  dampness 
of  the  trees  made  me  think  with  a  shudder  of 
the  days  of  my  childhood  passed  in  a  cottage, 
beside  an  ignorant  old  woman,  among  people 
whose  rudimental  goodness  was  poor  excuse  in 
my  eyes  for  their  invincible  vulgarity;  of  the 
piece  of  bread  which  they  gave  me  and  of  the 
hunger  of  the  soul  in  which  they  let  me  languish ; 
and  an  indescribable  tenderness  moved  me  for  the 
poor  girl  that  I  had  been. 

In  you,  the  hour  must  have  awakened  very 
different  images;  perhaps  your  paternal  castle 
gay  with  the  flames  of  crackling  pine  logs  leaping 
under  the  arabesque  arch  of  the  fireplace,  the 
style  of  the  Stuart  reign;  and  the  fantastic  park 
seen  through  the  polychromatic  crystal ;  and  your 
mother,  your  sweet  mother,  who  caressed  you. 

"You  should  go  to  see  the  cupola  of  St.  Peter 
gilded  by  the  reflections  of  the  last  rays,"  you 
said. 

I  arose  as  the  most  natural  thing,  as  if  it  had 
been  understood  that  we  should  leave  together, 
as  if  I  had  known  you  always.  As  I  moved  I 
saw  that  your  foot  had  canceled  the  name  written 
by  me  in  the  sand  with  the  point  of  my  parasol, 
nor  did  I  grieve  —  it  seemed,  as  it  were,  a  libera- 
tion. I  believe  I  gave  no  sign  of  feeling,  although 
every  memory  slighted  leaves  a  wound,  and  from 
then  I  knew  your  extraordinary  delicacy.  With 
an  accent  and  a  glance  which  I  had  not  yet 

12 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

observed  in  you,  you  murmured  softly,  in  an 
affectionate  tone  which  contrasted  the  dominat- 
ing timbre  of  your  voice: 

"I  hope  I  have  not  displeased  you.  At  any 
rate,  shall  we  be  friends?" 

The  mysterious  veil  of  your  eyes  raised  itself, 
and  I  gazed  deep  into  a  heaven  of  radiant  blue. 
How  we  understood  each  other  in  that  moment! 
Two  or  three  times  only,  in  the  days  that  fol- 
lowed, did  I  see  in  your  pupils  and  in  the  iris, 
usually  clouded,  that  surrounded  them,  that  sud- 
den and  rapid  gleam,  like  a  momentary  baring 
of  your  soul. 

It  is  sweet  to  me  thus  to  turn  back  to  hours 
of  the  past,  because  I  have  no  doubt  that  happi- 
ness consists  more  of  hours  than  of  days,  and 
more  of  thoughts  than  of  things. 

How  should  I  forget  the  lively  pleasure, 
frank  and  reciprocal,  which  neither  of  us  tried  to 
dissimulate,  when  we  met  a  few  days  after  at  the 
Pantheon  !  For  the  horror  of  the  common  words, 
we  had  parted  without  any  promise  of  another 
meeting,  but  the  certainty  of  our  coming  together 
again  had  made  our  farewell  very  sweet.  With 
that  passionate  regret  for  the  irrevocable,  I  think 
now  of  the  ardor  with  which  you  must  have 
sought  me,  feverishly,  madly,  through  the  streets 
of  Rome. 

"Among  the  tombs,"  you  said,  saluting  me. 

13 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

I  looked  at  you,  surprised  to  find  you  so 
young;  and  while  at  first  you  had  seemed  to  me 
pale  and  almost  too  serious,  I  discovered  now, 
with  a  certain  timidity,  the  delicate  freshness  of 
your  color  and  your  mouth  so  childlike  in  its 
austere  beard,  giving  the  effect  of  a  bud  peeping 
from  dark  foliage.  I  had  an  instant  of  shame, 
and  during  this  I  believe  I  blushed. 

"You  have  not  acted  recently,"  you  said 
again. 

I  answered  a  dry  No!  without  giving  any 
cause,  busied  as  I  was  in  asking  myself  your  age. 

We  had  stopped  before  the  tomb  of  the  great 
King,  but  you  stood  at  one  side,  with  your  face 
raised,  and  the  light  from  the  impbtvixm  so  clearly 
revealed  your  face  that  I  could  trace  the  lines  of 
that  strange  mouth  at  once  so  young  and  so  cruel, 
forming  in  your  smile  an  acute  arc.  I  observed, 
too,  under  the  pride  of  your  profile,  the  evidence 
of  that  spirituality  which  your  eyes  so  fully  con- 
firmed and  which  emanated  from  all  your  person, 
like  a  fluid  between  you  and  the  world,  which  I 
call  your  air.  Alfred  di  Vigny  and  Chateau- 
briand must  have  looked  something  like  you. 

"I  love  these  tombs  (withdrawing  from  the 
arch  of  Victor  Emanuel,  we  followed  the  curve 
of  the  Pantheon,  regarding  the  other  sepulchres), 
and  it  is  a  strange  sentiment  I  experience  here; 
rather  than  admiration,  a  proud  joy  possesses  me, 
the  serenity  of  one  who  was  lost  and  has  found 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

his  way  again.  If  you  knew  the  thoughts  that 
always  crowd  upon  me  in  this  place!  I  think 
perhaps " 

I  said  no  more.  Repeating  these  words  over 
now  to  myself,  I  am  surprised  that  you  probed 
their  proud  and  wild  meaning.  And  that  you 
did  I  was  made  aware  by  the  sudden  darkening 
of  your  eyes  and  by  that  cold  sternness  in  which 
you  vest  yourself  as  with  a  cuirass  whenever  you 
suspect  rivalship  in  your  pride. 

But  I  did  not  know  you  well  then.  Con- 
fused at  my  boldness  and  your  reserve,  I  jest- 
ingly asked  you  if  I  had  spoken  foolishly.  You 
gave  me  this  reply:  "Quite  the  contrary,"  and 
the  silence  that  followed  seemed  sweeter  than 
any  words  you  could  have  spoken. 

From  the  tombs  there  came  a  voice  so  sym- 
pathetic to  my  heart  and  you  so  well  entered  into 
the  melancholy  spirit  of  the  scene,  we  felt  our- 
selves so  close  to  one  another,  so  in  harmony 
with  that  King  and  those  geniuses  that  never, 
perhaps,  as  then  has  the  invisible  accord  of  two 
intelligences  vibrated  a  tone  sharper  and  more 
penetrating.  Yes,  I  need  to  evoke  you  as  you 
then  were  if  I  am  to  continue  these  confidences. 
The  luminous  dawn  of  a  tempestuous  period, 
those  first  days  are  not  to  be  forgotten.  What 
boots  it  that  at  so  great  distance  your  real  pres- 
ence vanishes  in  a  fantastic  vision?  Is  not  life 
all  dream?  You  taught  me  that  .good  and  evil 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

do  not  exist  absolutely;  at  that  rate,  what  is  to 
be  or  not  to  be?  I  see  you,  I  create  you,  there- 
fore you  exist. 

Accords. 

To  know  a  soul,  a  heart,  an  intelligence,  and 
to  love  it  without  hope  of  return,  to  love  it  for 
itself  and  for  its  inherent  beauty;  to  enlighten 
oneself  by  its  rays,  to  burn  in  its  fires,  is  not  this 
a  proof  that  one  is  worthy  of  that  soul?  What 
need  of  response  from  that  soul  ?  Our  satisfac- 
tion is  in  feeling  our  equality  to  it. 

I  wrote  this  thought,  long  ago,  upon  the  first 
page  of  a  book  you  gave  me.  (Do  you  know 
which?) 

It  was  my  habit  to  note  my  thoughts  beside 
those  of  the  authors  most  sympathetic  to  me, 
sometimes  but  a  word,  a  name ;  it  seemed  to  me  in 
the  infinite  sadness  of  my  youth  that  thus  I  com- 
muned with  a  friend,  and  I  may  say  that  my  only 
joy  for  many  a  year  were  these  ideal  conversations. 

I  found  in  them  not  a  fantastic  world,  but  the 
true  world,  the  true  land  where  I  was  arbitress, 
that  country  from  which  I  had  been  torn,  before 
my  birth,  by  some  cruelty  of  fate,  my  possession, 
my  right.  That  was  the  door  behind  which  I 
heard  the  battering  weapons  of  my  brothers ;  but 
how  long,  oh,  how  long  it  remained  closed 
against  my  ardent  desires !  And  you  did  not 
understand  this! 

16 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

A  minute  description  of  the  world  in  which 
passed  my  youth,  all  that  petty,  prosaic  environ- 
ment, would  certainly  tempt  the  pen  of  a  realist. 
But  I  know  that  you  despise  such  vulgar  recitals 
and  I  myself  would  sicken  to  stir  again  that  heap 
of  rubbish  in  which  I  suffered  too  much  to  have 
treasured  for  it  either  rancor  or  hate  or,  I  might 
say,  even  a  memory.  I  will  picture  to  you  rather 
certain  isolated  scenes,  fragments  of  my  existence, 
which  have  survived  the  destruction  of  the  rest. 
Truly  this  is  woman's  work  to  unstitch  from  the 
ragged  canvas  of  old  tapestry  some  flowers  of 
embroidery.  Alas,  poor  flowers !  many  of  them 
will  crumble  in  my  ringers  and  not  one  of  them 
can  be  transferred  to  other  material. 

The  Prince. 

I  have  in  mind  a  street,  sunny  and  dusty ;  a 
great  excited  crowd,  a  throng  of  bodies,  voices, 
laughter,  all  that  animal  and  mechanical  confluence 
which  makes  me  so  averse  to  popular  reunions  — 
and  I,  a  fragile,  dreamy  girl,  jostled,  knocked 
about,  bruised  and  irritated  —  and  mute  —  groan- 
ing in  spirit,  while  my  companions  mocked  me; 
and  all  about  as  far  as  my  eye  could  reach,  or  my 
ear  catch  a  sound  or  my  mind  a  thought,  a  surg- 
ing mass  beating  against  me;  against  my  most 
cherished  and  profoundest  ideals,  a  brutal  shout 
from  a  thousand  throats:  "Thou  art  alone!" 

They  had  said  in  the  house:  "Let  us  go  to 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

see  the  prince."  It  was  the  crown  prince  who 
was  on  his  way  to  a  military  review.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  I  found  myself  in  presence  of  a 
form  of  superior  life,  of  a  being  really  royal  and 
really  alive.  It  seemed  to  be  the  incarnation  of 
one  of  my  visions.  The  prince!  This  magic 
word  aroused  in  me  a  tumult  of  ideas,  confused 
and  obscure  in  outline,  but  radiant  and  mysteri- 
ously attractive.  The  vulgar  remarks,  the  witti- 
cisms, the  jests  which  were  exchanged  among  the 
crowd  during  the  leisure  of  their  waiting  disgusted 
me;  disgusted  me  the  stupidly  beatific  prayers 
of  some,  wounded  me  like  swords  the  bursts  of 
coarse  laughter;  certain  gestures  cut  in  the  air 
descended  upon  me  like  blows;  sly  smiles  and 
certain  eye  gleams  brought  the  blood  to  my  brow 
as  assaults  against  my  modesty.  All  seemed  gay, 
satisfied,  stimulated  by  the  curiosity  of  seeing  the 
prince,  of  finding  themselves  joined  flank  to  flank, 
elbow  to  elbow,  mixing  the  unconscious  instincts 
of  their  carnality  to  the  somewhat  cynical  merry- 
making in  their  brains,  each  one  feeling  strong  in 
the  force  of  the  others,  in  the  spirit  of  the  others, 
each  personality  losing  itself  voluptuously  in  that 
morbid  self-oblivion  which  holds  the  masses  as  a 
unit. 

And  I  drew  my  dress  close  about  me,  striv- 
ing for  a  current  of  air  between  me  and  them, 
shrinking  from  contact,  trying  to  isolate  myself  a 
little  by  stopping  my  ears  with  my  fingers. 

18 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

Every  little  while  from  the  end  of  the  street 
a  shining  helmet  sent  a  quiver  through  the  crowd : 
"  Here  he  is !  Here  he  is ! "  Then  I  was  pos- 
sessed by  a  curious  sense  of  bitterness,  a  sob,  a 
swelling  of  my  throat  choked  me.  If  the  prince 
should  look  at  me!  If  from  above  that  thick 
wall  of  heads  with  his  eagle  eye  he  should  recog- 
nize me! 

My  agitation  grew  from  moment  to  moment; 
it  seemed  to  me  that  the  greatest  event  of  my  life 
was  about  to  take  place ;  my  heart  beat,  perspira- 
tion bathed  me,  and  yet  my  hands  were  like  ice. 

Three  or  four  times  the  crowd  had  cried, 
"  Here  he  is ! "  without  any  one  appearing.  Fi- 
nally a  little  group  of  horsemen  arrives.  It  is  he ! 
That  is  he ! 

All  stood  tiptoe,  gazing  eagerly,  all  excited, 
electrified,  attracted  to  one  point.  Then  I  was 
moved  by  a  contrary  sensation,  and  a  most  strange 
one.  I  remember  well  that  at  the  very  moment 
that  the  horses'  hoofs  beat  the  ground  before  me, 
although  I  too  had  stood  upon  tiptoe,  yet  I  fell 
back  and  lowered  my  eyes. 

A  respectful  silence  for  an  instant  dominated 
the  crowd,  a  more  rapid  pulsation  of  my  heart, 
almost  a  sense  of  suffocation,  a  shout:  "Long 
live  the  prince!"  He  was  gone. 

Then  raising  my  glance,  I  saw  the  white 
plume  waving  upon  his  head  and  rapidly  disap- 
pearing. The  crowd  dissolved  suddenly,  chat- 

19 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

ting,  commenting,  light,  ironical,  merry,  forget- 
ful. 

I  should  tell  you  that  I  slept  badly  that  night, 
that  the  day  following  my  heart  was  full,  mor- 
tally sad,  and  that  for  a  long  year  the  prince  who 
had  not  looked  at  me  mastered  all  my  thoughts? 
And  I  lived,  in  this  dream,  hours  of  delicious 
folly,  imagining  plots  and  conspiracies  which  I 
should  discover,  risking  my  life  to  save  my  hero. 

You  will  agree  that  for  a  first  love  this  was  no 
common  affair.  It  filled  that  need  of  exaltation 
which  in  my  struggle  with  destiny  had  saddened 
all  my  youth.  Immature  yet  for  love,  I  thought 
I  loved,  and  did  indeed — a  symbol, —  him  who 
in  my  inexpert  eyes  represented  the  greatest 
beauty,  the  greatest  talent,  the  highest  nobility, 
the  impossible,  the  unattainable,  my  dream ! 
There  are  words  which  have  the  power  of  sub- 
stantiating an  ideal  even  when  there  is  no  corre- 
spondent reality. 

Gropings. 

You  once  said  to  me  that  you  had  no  antipa- 
thies, but  more  than  twenty  times  I  have  sur- 
prised such  in  your  eyes,  in  a  gesture,  in  an  in- 
voluntary exclamation.  Give  me  the  pleasure  of 
contradicting  you.  It  is  impossible  that  you  are 
without  this  sensation  peculiar  to  the  superior 
races.  The  lower  one  descends  in  the  social 
scale  the  rarer  it  is,  because  animalism  blunts 

20 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

sensibility.  You  strive  to  conquer  this,  I  well 
believe,  for  the  good  of  others  and  as  much  or 
more  for  your  own,  it  being  a  perennial  fount  of 
suffering;  but  you  feel  it  and  that  is  enough  for 
me. 

There  are  a  thousand  causes  of  antipathy: 
stupidity,  arrogant  dullness,  pretension,  bad  taste; 
all  that  seems  and  is  not.  Certain  smiles  (think, 
I  pray  you,  of  certain  smiles)  with  the  voice,  the 
whole  bearing,  the  hand  ( have  you  ever  observed 
the  physiognomy  of  the  hand?)  present  the  most 
common  causes  of  antipathy.  Old  women  who 
persist  in  seeming  young,  fools  who  pretend  to 
be  intellectual,  vulgar  souls  attitudinizing  as  ex- 
quisites, how  can  you  endure  these  without  pain? 

I  suffer  likewise  in  seeing  a  coarse  woman 
tricked  out  in  lace,  and  objects  of  art  in  keeping 
of  a  gambler,  and  riches  in  the  hands  of  the 
ignorant  and  the  miserly. 

And  ugliness?  Certain  uglinesses,  ignoble, 
mean,  vicious,  cretinous,  hurt  me  like  a  blow.  It 
is  not  so  with  others.  In  a  group  of  five  persons, 
the  sight  of  ugliness  will  provoke  in  one  a  laugh, 
in  one  compassion,  in  one  triumph,  one  it  will 
leave  indifferent  and  one  will  be  unobservant. 
I  suffer,  suffer,  I  tell  you.  My  aunt  used  to  say: 
"It  is  not  the  poor  thing's  fault,  is  it?"  And 
how  about  me  ? 

My  sensibility  has  always  been,  even  in  this 
connection,  excessive,  and  I  have  not  a  doubt 

21 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

thaf  I  have  suffered  for  the  pains  and  the  ugli- 
ness of  others  more  than  they  themselves. 

My  aunt  made  me  learn  embroidery  from  a 
girl  much  older  than  I,  a  poor  lymphatic  creature, 
with  great  swollen  hands  spotted  with  purplish 
stains,  and  yellow  teeth  ridged  with  green  which 
seemed  to  leap  from  her  mouth  every  time  she 
opened  it,  and  as  I  was  not  a  model  pupil,  she 
opened  it  often:  "No,  no,  not  that  way;  be  at- 
tentive, smaller  points,"  and  those  hands,  those 
horrible  hands,  would  pass  and  repass  before  me, 
grazing  mine,  touching  me,  so  swollen  on  some 
days  that  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  off  them, 
although  sickened  by  the  sight.  But,  one  day 
when  the  poor  girl,  aware  of  my  repugnance,  bent 
her  head  in  humiliation,  I  threw  myself  on  her 
neck  all  ardor,  and  kissed  her  and  embraced  her. 
She  soon  grew  serene,  but  how  many  a  time  after- 
wards had  I  to  embrace  her,  and  no  one  pitied 
me! 

Such  were  my  sorrows,  diverse  from  those  of 
others,  but  were  they  the  less  grievous  for  that? 
Or  rather  were  they  not  doubled  by  their  very 
isolation? 

At  the  bottom  of  an  old  trunk  my  aunt  found 
a  pair  of  black  silk  stockings;  there  were  holes 
in  the  feet,  a  red  line  ran  around  the  hem  at  the 
top.  She  presented  them  to  me  and  I  exulted 
in  the  possession,  but  I  never  put  them  on.  I 
thought  that  when  they  were  worn  out — and 

22 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

that  they  would  be  soon  —  I  should  never  again 
have  a  pair  of  silk  stockings;  and  if  I  could  not 
have  them  always,  why  at  all?  The  delight  of 
the  first  moment  changed  to  sadness  whenever  I 
took  them  in  my  hand,  seized  as  I  was  by  the 
thought  of  their  frailty,  of  their  ephemeral  influ- 
ence in  the  satisfactions  of  my  life.  I  looked  at 
them  from  time  to  time  and  put  them  away  like 
relics.  Never  seeing  them  on  me,  my  aunt  said 
to  a  neighbor,  "She  is  pride  itself." 

My  aunt  formed  such  cruel  judgments  which 
struck  deep  into  my  heart,  which  made  me  weep 
as  if  I  found  myself  wandering  lonely  in  a  desert, 
crying  with  faint,  faint  voice  unheard  of  human 
ears.  Oh,  horrible  case!  a  voice  which  /only 
heard. 

You  cannot  imagine  how  some  phrases  grate 
upon  my  ear:  When  a  glass  is  broken,  "What 
have  you  done?  "  When  complaint  is  made  of 
pain  in  stomach  or  foot  or  what  not,  "It's  the 
weather;"  and  when  one  announces  with  spas- 
modic outcry  the  death  of  a  person  dear  to  one, 
this  question:  "When  was  it?" 

But  my  horror  for  elegant  women  you  will 
think  exaggerated,  those  who  in  following  the 
fashion  know  neither  heat  nor  cold,  nor  weariness, 
nor  sense,  nor  modesty,  who  bare  themselves,  lace 
themselves,  torture  themselves,  fast  or  stuff,  with 
equal  indifference,  whence  I  have  reached  this 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

conclusion,  that  the  skin  of  an  ass  stretched  over 
an  old  drum  is  the  fitting  comparison  for  the 
white  epidermis  of  a  practiced  mondaine. 

No  words  can  express  my  disdain  for  those 
who  speak  of  love  while  curling  their  whiskers  or 
of  religion  while  chewing  a  toothpick,  or  for  those 
ladies  who  declare  themselves  nervous  and  lovers 
of  music. 

And  there  is  something  graver  in  my  character 
which  has  always  exacerbated  the  wounds  of  my 
sensibility.  It  is  the  mania  of  seeking  the  truth 
at  any  cost.  To  gain  this  end  I  have  been  at 
times  foolish,  imprudent,  graceless  and  heartless ; 
you  know  that  terrible  aspersion  from  which  you 
too  are  not  clear.  From  a  heartless  person  (how 
often  did  I  hear  that  in  my  childhood ! )  there  is 
nothing  to  be  hoped. 

Heartless!  what  does  this  mean?  Good- 
hearted  those  are  called  who  smile  at  every  one, 
love  every  one,  those  who  are  gentle,  attentive 
and  obsequious  to  every  one. 

But  is  that  good-hearted?  They  need  every 
one ;  hence  their  goodness.  And  because  I  need 
no  one,  must  I  call  myself  heartless? 

There  was  a  time  when  I  wept  for  every  form 
of  unhappiness  in  the  world,  if  I  saw  a  funeral 
pass,  if  a  man  were  ragged  and  naked  to  the  cold, 
if  a  child  were  beaten,  and  even  if  a  horse  fell 
under  its  load,  and  even,  yes,  even  for  the  tree 
stoned  by  gamins,  its  branches  falling  like  severed 


THE    SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

limbs.  I  fancied  the  tree  groaned;  more  than 
once  I  wept  at  seeing  branches  stripped  from 
their  stock. 

One  day  a  hospital  litter  passed  me,  carrying 
a  mason  who  had  fallen  from  a  bridge;  he  was 
hidden  under  the  white  curtains,  but  his  hoarse, 
raucous  moans,  scarcely  human,  could  be  heard. 
I  was  obliged  to  lean  for  support  against  the 
wall,  and  I  do  not  think  greater  compassion  could 
be  than  that  I  felt  at  that  moment.  However, 
following  the  litter  with  my  eyes,  I  thought  how 
much  greater  must  be  the  heart  of  the  physician, 
who,  without  the  quiver  of  an  eyelid,  would 
plunge  his  hand  into  the  wounds  of  the  wretched 
man,  and  I  was  ashamed  of  my  weakness.  The 
supreme  scientists,  the  discoverers,  the  bene- 
factors, Jenner  and  Charcot  in  their  laboratories 
filled  with  dismembered  animals,  what  hearts 
must  they  have  had  in  contrast  with  those  soft 
persons  who  keep  dogs  on  velvet  cushions  and 
feed  almonds  to  caged  birds ! 

Compassion,  neighborly  love,  even  tenderness 
towards  animals,  are  not  these  sometimes  altru- 
istic forms  of  a  profoundly  egoistic  sentiment? 

It  is  the  instinct  which  speaks  in  human  pas- 
sions as  it  speaks  in  the  cat  which  is  gentle, 
placable,  affectionate,  and  cleanly,  because  other- 
wise it  would  not  attain  its  own  end,  that  of  liv- 
ing with  men. 

It  is  like  the  "good  heart"  of  those  ladies 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

who  take  up  subscription  charities  for  the  oppor- 
tunity they  offer  of  display.  Vulgarity,  vulgarity  ! 

I  knew  a  family  most  respected  for  the  "good 
heart"  of  its  component  members.  There  was  the 
mother  who  bore  a  great  name  and  was  convinced 
that  she  combined  in  herself  all  the  virtues  of  the 
Almanac  of  Gotha  and  those  of  the  Gospel  be- 
sides. The  elder  son,  a  roue,  went  to  confession 
because  he  was  "good-hearted"  and  wanted  to 
please  his  mother.  The  second,  a  consumptive, 
heard  a  perpetual  hymn  ascend  for  his  health,  his 
strength,  through  the  goodness  of  his  mother  and 
brothers.  And  the  daughter,  an  old  parchment 
creature,  was  attended  by  the  greatest  compli- 
ments which  can  console  a  poor  woman  for  the 
lack  of  all  the  rest.  But  why  console  oneself?  I 
would  never  console  myself. 

All  the  family  joined  with  one  accord  in  this 
mute  service  of  lies  and,  all  beatification,  lived  in 
the  most  complete  density,  smiling  at  one  another, 
exchanging  tender  kisses,  inebriated  by  their  mu- 
tual praises;  the  mother  with  her  virginal  air, 
the  first-born  with  his  pompous  pretensions  of 
ability,  the  other  challenging  the  human  race  be- 
tween two  fits  of  coughing,  and  the  daughter 
emotionally  repeating,  as  it  were,  an  accompani- 
ment to  the  rhythm  of  her  own  personality. 

I,  too,  have  tried  to  be  consolatory,  and  have 
never  succeeded  in  my  efforts.  I  said  to  the 

26 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

sick :  Look  at  the  suffering  in  all  this  world,  in- 
finite, greater  than  thine,  inevitable,  obedient  to 
an  occult  will.  He  replied :  "  What  are  to  me 
the  sufferings  of  others?  I  feel  my  own." 

I  said  to  the  weak  and  weary  disheartened  by 
the  struggle  of  life  :  "All  this  is  transitory;  it  is 
but  a  trial;  one  day  you  will  marvel  that  you 
were  cast  down  for  so  little."  And  he  replied: 
"  The  present  only  has  value." 

And  a  hundred  times  my  arms  fell  helpless, 
and,  full  of  dismay,  I  asked  myself  what  divided 
me  from  my  neighbor  and  why  we  could  not  un- 
derstand each  other.  I  would  blush  to  offer  a  lie 
as  comfort;  it  seems  to  me  a  derision,  an  insult. 
And  yet  this  is  what  they  wish,  what  they  love, 
what  they  give  with  great  zeal  that  they  may 
receive  the  same  again;  for,  prodigal  today  of 
ignoble  words  of  adulation  and  blandishment, 
they  unconsciously  feel  that  tomorrow  these  will 
be  spent  upon  them  again:  and  if  at  the  moment 
of  pronouncing  them  they  feel  the  insincerity  of 
the  words,  when  they  listen  the  tone  seems 
altogether  another. 

Thus  one  day  a  lie  for  good-heartedness, 
another  day  for  egoism;  today,  not  to  offend  the 
pride  of  a  friend,  tomorrow  another,  not  to  crush 
his  weakness.  There  is  some  effort  in  the  lie, 
but  the  reflection  that  it  is  due  to  friendship,  or 
to  prudence,  or  to  social  duty,  makes  it  almost  a 
virtue.  Once  having  gained  this  point,  this  logic 

27 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

soon  enlarges  its  borders,  and  having  exercised 
its  powers  for  others,  we  feel  justified  in  employ- 
ing it  for  ourselves. 

Evidently,  I  reason  too  closely,  but  to  love 
truth,  and  to  suffer  for  it  and  to  sacrifice  oneself 
to  it,  is  this  to  have  a  bad  heart?  Perhaps  I  love 
ideas  more  than  persons;  this  may  be,  but  prove 
to  me  the  superior  worth  of  persons.  From  the 
deep  pool,  the  stagnant  waters  which  surrounded 
me,  I  looked  around,  and  what  could  I  do?  I 
hoped  to  find  unexpectedly  some  revelation,  some 
path,  a  ray,  perhaps  a  voice,  who  knows? 

Religion  I  knew  only  in  the  petty  practices 
of  my  old  aunt.  Boiled  eggs  on  Friday,  ancho- 
vies on  Saturday,  the  rosary  every  evening,  and 
confession  once  a  month;  a  squalid  wooden  cru- 
cifix, often  kissed  by  my  aunt,  was  my  only  and 
repugnant  symbol  of  a  religion  I  did  neither  love 
nor  understand.  And  yet  I  had  a  lively  desire 
of  God  and  sought  Him  again  and  again  with 
eyes  upraised  to  the  limpid  night.  But  what  God 
did  I  seek?  Who  could  declare  Him  to  me? 
Where  was  He?  I  know  that  once  while  gazing 
at  the  stars  I  was  overcome  by  a  tenderness  so 
profound,  so  devotional,  so  mysteriously  sad  that 
my  face  was  wet  with  tears;  seeing  which,  my 
aunt  cried:  "Simpleton!"  and  then  added,  "Say 
a  requiem  for  your  poor  dead." 


28 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

Discords. 

I  remember,  also,  an  old  man  whom  my  aunt 
obsequiously  called  Signer  Professor.  He  was 
a  neighbor  of  ours  and  as  he  always  had  some 
books  on  his  big  table  and  spoke  ever  of  instruc- 
tion, of  culture,  of  wisdom,  I  felt  myself  drawn 
to  him  by  a  vague  hope  of  light.  I  did  not  dare 
speak  much,  for  I  was  timid  and  too  much  con- 
strained by  my  humble  condition,  but  I  listened 
to  him  eagerly,  and  with  a  certain  pulsing  in  my 
veins.  I  expected  from  one  moment  to  another 
that  he  would  utter  some  sublime  word,  and  in 
this  attitude  I  trembled. 

One  day  finding  me  more  than  usually 
thoughtful,  he  had  the  goodness  to  interrogate 
me.  What  a  commotion!  What  could  I  say? 
And  how  should  he  reply  ?  Blushing  deeply,  and 
with  drooping  lids,  I  confessed  how  distressed  I 
was  not  to  know  what  in  this  world  was  truly  true. 

The  professor  burst  into  solemn  laughter, 
which  instead  of  disconcerting  me,  suggested 
very  suddenly  this  doubt:  "Perhaps  you  are 
not  yourself  true";  and  then  I  had  the  courage 
to  raise  my  eyes  and  to  look  him  in  the  face. 

"Well,"  said  he,  struggling  to  recover  his 
seriousness,  "virtue,  knowledge,  good  and  evil 
are  true  things.  There  is  one  other  truer  still 
and  that  is  arithmetic.  Do  you  know,  child, 
that  two  and  two  are  truly  four?" 

I   replied  that  I  had  been  told  so  but  that  I 

29 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

did  not  know,  and  this  reply,  which  might  have 
seemed  a  profound  repartee,  was  naught  else  but 
a  candid  confession  of  my  ignorance. 

A  few  days  after,  the  professor  took  me  to  a 
manufactory,  where  in  a  long  row  a  great  number 
of  machines  were  turning,  puffing,  whistling. 
Bending  to  my  ear,  he  said  ironically:  "Behold 
truth.  These  machines  which  never  make  a  mis- 
take, which  regularly  fulfil  their  functions  as  if 
they  were  living  beings,  are  precisely  the  fruit  of 
that  superior  science  that  begins  with  two  and 
two  are  four." 

At  this  very  moment  the  workman  who  was 
guiding  one  of  the  machines  exclaimed:  "It's 
stopped;  one  of  the  wheels  is  broken."  The 
professor  at  once  understood  the  accident,  but 
did  he  also  understand  my  glance,  immovable, 
filled  with  sadness,  fixed  upon  the  machine  which 
turned  no  more  ? 

And  for  a  long  while  I  believe  that  I  did  not 
love  nature.  Except  for  the  momentary  revela- 
tion which  I  had  that  day  upon  mounting  one  of 
the  hills  of  the  Versa,  the  trees,  the  mountains, 
the  heavens  were  for  me  but  the  cold  and  monot- 
onous scenery  of  exasperating  excursions. 

We  went  in  companies  of  four,  five  or  six,  as 
many  as  could  be  gathered  together,  furnished 
with  something  to  eat  which  must  be  guarded 
during  the  whole  expedition  and  which  was  the 

30 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

real  object  of  our  setting  out.  We  walked  in 
procession  at  each  other's  heels  through  narrow 
paths  bounded  by  hedgerows,  keeping  our  eyes 
down  to  avoid  the  dirt  of  the  path  and  obeying 
directions  sent  back  from  the  head  of  the  file : 
"Turn  to  the  right;  keep  to  the  left." 

Upon  the  dusty  breadth  of  the  highroad, 
however,  the  company  disposed  itself  in  flank, 
and,  if  I  delayed  a  little  or  advanced,  my  aunt's 
voice  soon  called  me  to  order. 

A  cup  of  black  leather,  cracked  with  long 
use,  circulated  from  pocket  to  pocket,  from  hand 
to  hand,  from  mouth  to  mouth,  profaning  all  the 
springs  which  issued  by  our  way.  I  remember 
how  I  longed  for  a  voluptuous  draught  from  the 
pure  source  itself,  my  mouth  in  the  delicious 
freshness  ;  but  one  day  when  I  risked  this  delight, 
my  scandalized  aunt  cried  out:  "  How  dreadful ! 
You  drink  like  a  beast!" 

Little  by  little  there  overcame  me  a  deep 
loathing  for  the  straight  paths,  for  the  crystal 
streams  filtered  into  the  black  cup,  for  the 
shadowy  levels  defaced  by  empty  paper  bags  and 
chicken  bones,  for  the  numberless  tiny  meadow- 
lands,  for  the  jasmine  hedges,  for  the  golden  buds 
gathered  for  button-hole  adornment,  for  the  heads 
of  chicory  from  which  opened  like  clear  blue  eyes 
the  dear  flowers  which  I  had  so  loved,  and  which 
I  detested  from  the  day  I  saw  them  pranking 
above  a  salad.  Then  all  the  popular  songs, 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

amorous  or  patriotic,  sung  in  chorus  under  the 
trees,  put  a  climax  to  my  sadness.  It  was  then  I 
learned  to  weep  internally. 

Once  I  had  a  compensation.  Stirred  always 
by  the  impulse  of  flight,  I  profited  by  some  dis- 
traction of  the  company,  occupied  as  they  were 
in  eating,  to  withdraw  myself,  were  it  only  by  a 
few  steps,  and  on  such  occasion  under  the  thick 
cover  of  a  plant  with  earth-bowed  branches,  I 
discovered  an  apparition  so  delicate  that  I  am 
even  now  moved  by  the  pleasure  of  the  remem- 
bered vision. 

It  was  a  group  of  flowers  I  had  never  seen 
before  (crocuses?)  —  without  stem,  and  leafless, 
springing  one  bygone  from  the  ground,  bare  and 
white,  with  a  whiteness  fleshy  rather  than  diaphan- 
ous, coloring  to  a  pale  lilac,  the  long  slender 
calyx  opening  with  exquisite  grace.  These  noble 
flowers  gathered  in  sweet  consort  and  protected 
by  the  branching  shade  seemed  to  me  aristocratic 
dames  in  dignified  repose,  or  sad  and  gracious 
poets  escaped  the  throng  and  in  close  covert  from 
touch  or  observation. 

I  repelled  the  temptation  to  pluck  them  as  a 
brutality.  Lightly,  lightly,  it  seeming  almost  as 
if  I  should  disturb  them,  I  kneeled  down  and 
then  sliding  along  my  length  in  the  sward,  I  lay 
outstretched  with  my  face  close  to  them,  looking, 
looking,  only  looking  at  them. 

Were  they  flowers  indeed?     Need  had  they 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

of  this  secluded  solitude,  a  solitude  complete,  for 
not  another  plant  was  near,  all  shut  out  by  the 
green  curtain  of  this  princely  retreat.  Did  those 
frail  lilac  forms  breathe  out  a  perfume?  No, 
rather  than  the  rude  sensation  which  we  associate 
with  such  a  word,  there  was  a  fragrant  sweetness 
of  purity,  almost  the  emanation  of  an  intimate 
essence  far  too  delicate  and  spiritual  to  be  allied 
to  the  materiality  of  an  odor. 

I  lay  in  a  delicious  ecstasy  of  contemplation. 
It  seemed  to  me  my  presence  was  felt  and  not 
resented.  I  counted  them;  there  were  seven  and 
two  tiny  ones  hardly  yet  above  ground.  They 
were  close  together,  but  without  contact.  I  felt 
within  me  a  most  curious  satisfaction:  here  were 
my  people !  But  even  this  innocent  revelry  cost 
me  dear.  My  aunt  reproved  me  sharply,  saying 
it  was  not  "civil"  to  leave  the  company,  that  I 
should  do  as  others  did  and  not  wish  to  appear 
eccentric  and  ill-bred.  At  the  very  moment  of 
this  reprimand,  a  young  lady  was  making  little 
balls  of  bread-crumbs  and  throwing  them  in  the 
faces  of  the  guests,  and  this  did  not  seem  eccen- 
tric or  ill-bred,  but  rather  provoked  laughter  as 
something  winningly  witty. 

My  soul!  My  refuge! 

"My  mother,"  you  once  said  to  me,  "was  a 
superior  woman,  a  profound  intellect,  a  pure 
heart." 

33 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

I  begged  you  then,  and  many  times  after,  to 
speak  to  me  of  her,  which  you  did  with  an  ex- 
pansive confidence  which  remains  the  sweetest 
memory  of  our  intercourse.  You  permitted  me 
to  participate  in  this  maternal  cult,  and  through 
you  I  knew  and  loved  your  mother.  The  dear 
dead,  whose  shroud  you  lifted  for  a  moment, 
abides  with  me,  and  you  —  are  gone!  She  makes 
a  part  of  that  inner  world  of  my  soul  which  I 
call  my  temple. 

I  do  not  know  whether  in  reality  or  in  some 
dream  I  have  seen  a  Gothic  temple  standing  in 
the  solitary  space  of  a  wide  champaign,  girded 
by  a  woody  plantation,  tranquil  and  dim  in  the 
interior,  lit  by  the  stained  ogive  windows  whose 
colored  rays  touched  the  tombs  to  a  seeming 
warmth. 

Often  it  seems  to  me  my  soul,  weary  of  the 
world,  of  life,  of  my  fellow  beings,  retires  within 
me  for  repose.  Then  I  find  all  the  sensations  of 
a  sacred  retreat,  a  great  peace,  a  sweet  and  solemn 
mystery,  a  gentle  gleam  of  exalted  melancholy,  a 
poetic  sentiment  and  a  glad  delirium  of  isolation. 
There,  too,  from  the  windows  of  thought  comes 
a  warm  and  equal  light,  and  in  a  tender  glow  my 
elect  dead  breathe  again  and  surround  me,  risen 
for  me  alone  from  their  eternal  oblivion. 

You  well  know  that  some  must  weep  in  this 
world,  but  you  have  never.  You  have  no  sep- 
ulchre in  your  soul,  although  you  go  often  to 

34 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

meditate  at  the  tomb  of  your  mother — that  stone 
which  you  have  described  to  me  and  whose 
inscription  the  invading  ivy  conceals  from  all  but 
you  who  alone  have  the  right  to  move  the  veil 
from  the  dear  recording  name.  The  nostalgia 
of  grey  mornings  passed  in  your  village  cemetery 
assailed  you  often  in  this  sunny  land.  Once  when 
we  were  seated  beneath  the  arches  of  the  Coliseum 
— do  you  remember? — you  said  to  me:  "You 
do  not  know  what  it  is  to  think  of  a  distant 
tomb." 

The  sad  certainty  of  your  tone,  wounding  my 
pride,  precluded  any  reply.  But  listen  to  me 
now.  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  think  of  an 
unknown  tomb,  whose  very  existence  is  doubtful  ? 
Can  you  conceive  that  profound,  that  maddening 
sorrow,  not  to  know,  not  even  to  hope  to  know, 
of  whom  you  are  begotten  ? 

Oh,  all  that  you  told  me  of  your  mother — 
her  caresses,  her  anxieties,  the  prayers  she  taught 
you,  your  little  hands  clasped  upon  your  crib, 
her  injunctions  to  be  good,  to  be  just,  to  be  great; 
and  that  book  in  which  she  noted  from  day  to 
day  your  progressions;  and  the  little  museum  of 
your  tiny  garments;  the  first  baby  shoe,  the  first 
glove,  and  those  sweet  eyes  fixed  upon  you, 
watchful,  loving,  protecting  ever,  and  which  fol- 
low you  across  mountains  and  seas,  breaking  the 
bonds  of  the  grave!  Even  that  sepulchre  I 
envy  you,  that  spot  of  earth,  that  short  stone 

35 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN   ARTIST 

over  which  you  may  say,  weeping,  "  Here  lies  my 
mother." 

I  have  nothing. 

When  at  last  she  died,  the  old  woman  who 
called  herself  my  aunt,  died  unexpectedly,  the 
neighbors  said  that  she  herself  did  not  know  who 
I  was.  She  had  taken  me  for  a  certain  money 
compensation,  and  as  I  gave  her  no  trouble,  was 
rather  an  aid  and  a  companion,  she  had  persuaded 
herself,  as  it  were,  that  we  were  related,  but  either 
because  of  limited  intelligence,  or  of  ignorance  or 
of  indolence,  she  had  never  taken  the  pains  to 
acquaint  me  of  this  mystery  of  my  birth;  and 
the  atmosphere  that  pervaded  me  was  so  unfor- 
tunate, so  low  and  so  destructive  of  all  ideals,  that 
I  myself  had  never  felt  the  need  to  know  more. 

The  death  of  the  poor  woman  awakened  me 
as  from  a  heavy,  troubled  dream,  except  that  to 
dream  one  must  have  lived,  and  with  me  life  had 
been  only  a  dream. 

Who  was  I?  Whither  was  I  tending?  What 
should  I  do?  Think  of  these  three  problems 
given  to  a  girl  of  fourteen  years,  alone  in  the 
world.  The  first  night  I  wept;  the  second,  I  did 
not  weep  but  I  did  not  sleep.  Betimes  the  next 
morning  I  followed  the  bier  of  the  stranger  who 
had  shared  with  me  her  roof  and  her  bread.  Once 
more  at  home,  I  seated  myself  amidst  the  few 
movables  which  adorned  our  three  rooms  and 

36 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

gazed  at  them  in  a  kind  of  stupor.  They  as- 
sumed a  new  aspect  to  me;  it  seemed  I  had  never 
seen  them  before. 

Would  not  that  armoire  open  unexpectedly, 
and  would  not  some  shadow  rise  from  the  hollow 
of  that  green  armchair,  or  issue  from  the  mantel 
mirror  whose  shining  surface  reflected  the  clock  — 
the  clock,  the  only  living  thing  near  me,  what 
company  it  was  for  me  in  those  first  hours!  The 
hand  moved  slowly  around  at  the  feet  of  a  lady 
leaning  against  a  column  with  an  amphora  in  her 
arms,  and  the  voice  of  the  inner  mechanism  lulled 
me  like  the  rhythm  of  a  cradle-song. 

A  neighbor  came  to  take  me  to  her  home.  I 
passed  several  toneless  days.  A  black  veil  was 
wound  about  my  neck  and  black  earrings  were 
hung  in  my  ears,  and  I  made  mechanical  responses 
to  a  quantity  of  requiems.  Then  there  arrived 
some  persons  whom  I  did  not  know,  who  made 
me  write  my  name  and  who  examined  all  the 
dead  woman's  belongings. 

It  appeared  the  good  creature  had  lived  on  a 
pension,  which  ceased  immediately  upon  her  death, 
and  likewise  that  all  the  furniture  was  to  be  sold 
for  my  profit,  since  I  heard  them  talk  of  giving 
me  a  profession.  So  I  was  put  in  a  convent, 
where  I  remained  a  little  more  than  two  years, 
when  I  was  taken  out  by  a  lady  to  be  companion 
to  her  daughter. 

During  this  interval  I  had  experienced  a  com- 

37 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

plete  evolution  of  thought.  As  long  as  I  believed 
that  I  belonged  to  the  family  of  the  old  woman 
with  whom  I  lived,  the  humiliation  and  the  sor- 
row of  being  in  continual  discord,  in  an  unspeak- 
ably painful  straitness  of  means,  had  compressed 
every  spring  of  my  organism.  I  felt  myself  a 
prisoner,  and  like  many  prisoners  I  sighed  for 
liberty  without  any  design  of  flight.  Whatever 
my  instincts,  the  discipline  to  which  they  were 
inured  promised  nothing  but  complete  atrophy. 
How  could  I  find  energy  to  rebel  against  a  past 
of  traditions,  of  prejudices,  of  ignorance,  man- 
acled as  I  was  by  my  own  ignorance  ? 

All  this  changed  when  I  knew  that  I  belonged 
to  no  one,  and  that  the  past  was  mine,  exclusively 
mine,  as  was  the  future. 

This  great  responsibility  fallen  thus  unforeseen 
upon  me,  and  the  first  numbness  of  the  blow  hav- 
ing ceased,  the  austere  and  penetrating  melan- 
choly of  my  environment  revealed  me  to  myself. 
No  longer  was  I  the  daughter  of  a  vulgar  and 
degenerate  race,  reduced  to  a  life  of  mere  instinct. 
I  was  I,  that  is,  a  free  force,  an  absolute  will,  an 
integral  consciousness.  Even  the  dark  cloud 
which  hung  about  my  nascence,  far  from  vilify- 
ing me,  gave  me  at  certain  times  a  kind  of  exal- 
tation. I  saw  within  the  gloom  sparkling  points 
of  gold  to  which  my  fancy  attached  mysterious 
filaments. 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

Who  would  ever  tell  me  whose  daughter  I 
was  ?  But  is  a  name  really  all  ?  I  feel  that  I 
have  a  noble  ancestry,  a  scale  ascending  towards 
the  highest  human  ideals  and  all  these  germs  of 
good  have  been  transmitted  to  me.  What  im- 
ports the  name  ?  And  what  are  riches  ?  Who- 
ever you  are,  grandparents  of  my  grandparents, 
I  bless  you  ! 

There  is  a  friend  dearer  than  a  brother.  What 
are  relatives  ?  Whom  can  I  so  name  ?  Suppose 
our  relatives  are  clownish  or  malicious,  must  we 
then  love  them,  and  why? 

A  stolid  mother  gives  birth  to  a  genius,  a 
man  of  genius  finds  himself  father  of  an  imbecile. 
How  much  of  him  is  in  that  son  and  how  much 
of  others  whom  he  never  saw,  never  knew  of, 
never  loved  ?  Is  this  flesh  of  flesh,  spirit  of 
spirit? 

Of  what  sum  total  of  ill-assorted  unions  is 
this  fruit  which  he  thinks  all  his  own  ?  Uncles 
and  aunts,  brothers  and  sisters-in-law,  cousins, 
what  are  these  but  fortuitous  combinations  of  our 
life,  independent  of  our  will  ? 

Like  names,  like  interests,  like  customs,  do 
these,  perchance,  constitute  the  union  of  souls  ? 
And,  after  all,  of  what  importance  is  such  union? 

My  relatives  ?  Why,  they  are  such  as  I  love 
and  choose,  not  those  who  are  imposed  upon  me. 
Who  are  you  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  Lawrence, 
but  a  stranger  born  under  a  heaven,  oh,  so  far 

39 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

distant  from  me  !  But  shall  I  declare  the  world 
right?  Shall  not  I  rather  say  that  the  world 
knows  nothing  of  the  links  that  bind  soul  to 
soul  quite  apart  from  the  social  compact,  from 
every  sentiment  of  gratitude  ? 

When  I  encounter  one  who  loves  the  grey 
mists  of  winter,  who  prefers  the  green  depths  of 
a  thicket  to  the  bluest  of  seas  or  the  most  golden 
of  suns,  cold  to  heat,  to  external  life  reflection, 
to  music  silence,  to  color  shadow,  to  action 
thought,  then  I  say  this  is  my  relative.  When  I 
encounter  one  who  lives  in  his  soul  as  a  priest  in 
his  temple,  serving  and  adoring  the  mystery  of 
his  office,  there  is  my  brother.  But  when  he 
appears  who  opens  to  me  the  supreme  beauty 
and  the  supreme  good  of  this  recondite  sanctu- 
ary, he  will  be  truly  my  comrade.  Who  will  deny 
me  this?  In  name  of  what  law,  what  right? 
Elective  affinity  is  the  most  worthy  of  man,  the 
only  one  in  which  he  can  engage  his  whole  con- 
tingent of  intelligence,  of  learning,  of  experience, 
of  desire.  Great  is  the  compass  of  a  love  which 
says :  In  all  the  amplitude  of  the  world,  from 
among  those  near  and  those  far,  through  all  the 
obstacles  of  time,  of  space,  of  men,  I  choose  thee. 

The  Convent. 

The  two  years  passed  in  the  convent  were 
most  sweet.  It  was  a  new  prospect  opened  before 
me,  with  its  daily  instruction,  the  books,  the  lofty 

40 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

speech  of  the  sisters,  the  order,  the  silence,  the 
restraint,  somewhat  rigorous,  but  in  no  way  re- 
pellent. Even  in  the  pale,  shadowless  light  of 
the  corridors,  in  the  garden  enclosure,  in  the  re- 
tired chapel,  so  silent,  with  its  altar-cloths  of 
white  velvet  fringed  with  silver,  I  found  an  am- 
bient sympathetic  for  my  dreams. 

The  sisters,  either  very  indulgent  or  little 
observant,  gave  no  heed  to  my  abstraction  ;  the 
truth  is  I  did  not  always  recite  the  obligatory 
prayers,  but  an  inarticulate  oblation  must  have 
issued  from  my  heart  and  risen  to  God  in  those 
dear  hours  of  mystic  preparation  which  have  left 
a  pure  white  ray  in  my  inmost  soul  darkened  by 
so  many  sorrows.  No  longer  did  I  ask  myself 
"What  shall  I  do?"  but  within  me  there  was  a 
vague  conviction  that  I  should  do  something. 

I  was  surprised  to  find  myself  always  different 
from  those  about  me.  The  simplest  and  most 
common  objects  had  for  me  a  secondary  aspect ; 
words  changed  often  to  living,  concrete  things  ; 
I  made  animate  not  only  form  but  idea.  My 
imagination  was  so  alert  that  without  an  effort  it 
transformed  the  convent  garden  into  a  kind  of 
Elysium,  a  fanciful  and  primitive  world  as  yet 
uninhabited  by  man.  The  shadow  of  a  group 
of  three  plants  was  enough  to  make  me  believe 
myself  in  a  primeval  forest,  the  yellowing  apri- 
cots seemed  to  me  the  golden  fruit  of  the  Hes- 
perides  and  the  subtile  spider  threads,  pendulous 

41 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

in  the  sun's  rays,  I  really  believed  to  be  the  locks 
of  dryads  or  of  nymphs,  fluttering  upon  the 
breeze. 

I  remember  a  hot  day  in  August,  the  whole 
school  depressed,  cross,  and  overcome  by  the 
stifling  air  which  even  in  the  wide  hall  seemed  to 
weigh  us  down.  I  can  yet  see  the  streak  of  yel- 
low light  which  pierced  the  fissures  of  the  cur- 
tains, I  feel  the  hard  bench,  the  numbness  of  the 
limbs  from  the  enforced  immobility,  and  I  can 
yet  hear  the  monotonous  voice  of  the  sister  as 
she  reads  the  lives  of  the  saints.  At  one  point, 
where  occurs  the  description  of  a  grotto  in 
Thebes,  this  sentence  made  me  thrill  with  pleas- 
ure: "There  issued  from  the  rock  a  spring  of 
freshest,  purest  water,"  and  for  an  instant  the 
heat,  the  drought  was  gone  and  I  was  happy, 
transported  to  that  delicious  region  of  stream  and 
mountain. 

So  little  was  needed,  for  my  imagination  con- 
quering reality,  I  almost  felt  the  cool  water 
plashing  about  my  limbs  and  gurgling  in  my 
parched  throat.  I  said  this  to  my  neighbor  and 
she  bantered  me  many  a  day  after. 

O  the  fascination  of  words !  Do  you  remem- 
ber those  written  upon  the  fa9ade  of  a  little 
church  in  a  hidden  quarter  of  a  city  dear  to  us? 
"Ascendit  quasi  aurora  consurgens"  How  we  loved 
them,  do  you  remember?  How  our  lips  pro- 

42 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

nounced  them  one  by  one,  deliciously,  caress- 
ingly !  Your  voice  had  a  profound  note  of 
sympathy  for  the  first,  ascendit^  and  I  repeated 
with  a  warm  and  tremulous  sweetness  the  two 
following,  quasi  aurora;  and  it  seemed  to  us  that 
we  really  were  uplifted  with  the  rays  of  the  morn- 
ing. That  ineffable  joy  of  enjoying  together, 
with  the  same  soul,  I  had  never  had  till  I  knew 
you.  In  my  prayer-book,  however,  there  were 
phrases  which  particularly  touched  me — a  version 
of  the  dies  ir<£>  which  begins :  "In  quel  di  che  le 
Sibille"  and  a  canzonet  of  the  beatific  Alfonso  de 
Luguori,  "Sefoa  romita  e  oscura."  I  repeated  them 
for  whole  days,  carried  away  by  the  mysterious 
harmony  of  the  syllables,  the  mysterious  signifi- 
cation of  the  symbols.  And  for  this,  too,  I  was 
a  mock  to  my  companions. 

We  all  have  a  great  number  of  cherished  fan- 
cies ;  for  the  larger  part  of  girls  these  are  toys 
of  the  imagination,  for  one  a  sacred  object,  as  a 
complement  to  prayer  or  other  rites,  and  for 
another  a  means  of  surpassing  her  companions. 
Each  of  these  was  to  me  the  revelation  of  a 
world.  I  remember  St.  Francesco  Saverio  preach- 
ing to  a  crowd  of  savages ;  they  were  rude  faces, 
badly  drawn,  yet  in  the  diverse  expressions  of  the 
faces  I  read  the  avidity  of  the  new  word  and  the 
ardor  of  his  mission  in  the  saint  who  in  stature 
dominated  all,  girt  about  with  the  brown  tunic 
which  contrasted  with  the  feathers  and  other  orna- 

43 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

ments  of  the  savages.  I  remember  a  certain 
ethereal  evanescent  Madonna,  and  certain  angels 
who  guided  souls  through  flowery  paths,  which 
aroused  within  me  a  passionate  tenderness,  and  a 
longing  for  those  unknown  spheres  to  which  I 
was  drawn  not  by  ascetic  temperament,  but  rather 
by  a  lively  fancy  and  the  irresistible  thirst  for  the 
beautiful. 

Above  all  I  was  attracted  by  a  little  image, 
the  gift  of  the  Lady  Superior,  a  delicate  relief 
representing  a  youth  kneeling  upon  an  empty 
cross  in  the  midst  of  a  sublime  scenery,  his  hands 
and  face  uplifted  with  such  an  intensity  of  desire 
that,  forgetting  the  subject  altogether,  I  was  en- 
rapt  by  the  mystery  of  that  sad  adoration,  and 
could  never  let  my  glance  fall  there  without  the 
most  violent  commotion.  For  a  long  time  I 
loved  that  youth,  knelt  beside  him  upon  his 
cross,  lifting  as  he  my  arms  to  a  dream  distant 
and  divine. 

Yet  another  picture  —  the  butt  of  my  jesting 
companions  —  was  a  cage,  a  simple  cage  contain- 
ing a  little  bird  and  above  it  a  flaming  heart. 
The  crude  design,  and  yet  the  extraordinary  in- 
genuity of  the  whole,  was  far  from  provoking 
mirth  in  me.  I  saw  a  being  imprisoned  by  one 
greater  than  he,  and  the  symbol  made  conquest 
of  the  form  ;  materiality  dissolved  into  ideality. 

This  vision,  evoked  by  so  miserable  a  repre- 
sentation, struck  measureless  depths  in  my  mind, 

44 


THE    SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

a  succession  of  scenes  at  once  ardent  and  spiritual, 
a  whole  phantasmagoria  of  latent  desires,  of 
incomplete  thoughts,  of  fevers,  of  discourage- 
ments, of  researches,  of  expectations,  of  strange 
clairvoyance  involved  and  impeded  by  dense 
shadows,  all  which  broke  my  speech,  made  my 
eye  glassy,  my  hands  moist  and  icy  at  the  same 
time,  a  real  state  of  nervous  excitement  not  new 
in  me,  which  my  poor  aunt  declared  a  sign  of 
worms  and  which  under  her  regime  was  always 
cured  by  a  dose  of  absinthe. 

In  the  quiet  Sunday  vespers  which  my  com- 
panions chose  to  spend  in  chat  and  walks  I  waited 
for  a  furtive  visit  to  the  chapel,  and  if  I  found 
myself  alone  there  I  exulted. 

I  was  not  very  religious,  mindful  of  the  nar- 
row rites  practiced  by  my  aunt,  but  a  sentiment 
of  profound  respect  for  the  mysterious,  a  serious, 
solemn  sentiment  made  me  love  the  majesty  of 
the  temple.  The  solitude  of  God  seemed  to  me 
a  thing  so  lofty  and  divine,  the  true  state  of  per- 
fection above  the  world  and  all  its  pettinesses,  so 
that  the  adoration  which  found  no  issue  at  my 
lips  made  the  depths  of  my  soul  its  humble  place 
of  attitude. 

I  was  not  an  artist,  nevertheless  the  frescoes 
of  the  arch,  the  thirteenth  century  virgins  sur- 
rounded by  angels,  guided  by  patriarchs  under  a 
roseate  heaven  which  time  had  here  and  there 
discolored,  giving  a  transparent  and  dream-like 

45 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

quality  to  the  painting,  —  all  this  was  to  me  in- 
vincible attraction.  Certain  white  diaphanous 
arms,  certain  faces  of  the  saints,  certain  tempestu- 
ous folds  of  the  tunics  which  issued  from  the 
cornice  invading  the  pilasters,  all  this  world  of 
inanimate  personages  I  vivified  with  my  imagina- 
tion and  I  loved.  Here  was  no  strident  affront. 
These  beings  were  as  silent  as  I. 

Certainly  I  was  not  a  poet;  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  me  to  write  one  line  of  verse, 
and  yet  I  heard  in  my  brain  a  harmony  of  sounds 
which  disturbed  me  deliciously,  and  which,  I 
think,  some  one  could  have  put  into  measure. 
The  fresh  roses  of  the  altar,  with  their  delicate 
odor  and  the  ivory-colored  linen,  gave  me  an  in- 
tensity of  delight;  with  my  eyes  I  followed  en- 
chanted the  metal  lacework  of  the  lamp,  the 
tabernacle  incrusted  with  stones  whose  changing 
tints  were  reflections  of  the  mysterious  Orient 
whence  they  were  taken.  The  sun's  ray,  which 
penetrated  the  narrow  window,  sweet  with  the 
song  of  birds,  played  lightly  about  the  azure  cur- 
tain before  gaining  the  interior  of  the  chapel, 
and  brought  with  it  the  joyousness  of  the  fields 
toned  by  a  sentiment  more  intimate  and  more 
ideal.  But  what  did  not  please  me  in  this  sacred 
refuge  when  I  could  be  there  alone?  The  impres- 
sion was  very  different  in  company  of  the  other 
pupils. 

I  had  asked  them  one  by  one  and  all  mar- 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

veled  at  my  enthusiasms;  the  greater  part  did 
not  know  what  was  painted  on  the  walls  ;  they  all 
agreed  that  one  must  go  to  church  to  say  prayers, 
but  there  was  no  diversion  in  this,  so  that  they 
found  compensation  in  whispering  together,  and 
trading  pictures  from  their  missals. 

By  force  of  observations  and  deductions  I 
began  to  doubt  if  even  the  sisters,  the  good  and 
pious  sisters  who  so  methodically  adorned  their 
chapel  with  roses  and  laces,  measuring  the  nave 
with  their  tranquil  step,  eyes  abased,  chaste  hands 
on  scapulary  —  oh!  so  good  and  pious — whether 
even  they  understood  or  felt  in  the  ardent  way  I 
did  all  the  poetry  of  the  Invisible. 

Whither  gout  thou?     Who  calls  thee? 

Ardor,  a  reserved  and  almost  violent  ardor, 
was  the  characteristic  of  all  my  impressions;  this 
excess  of  sensation  is  the  daily  battle  I  fight, 
which  scourges  me  at  every  hour,  at  every  mo- 
ment, leaving  its  livid  marks  through  all  my 
being. 

It  is  not  true,  as  has  been  said  of  me,  that 
from  my  youth  I  cherished  the  intention  of  giv- 
ing myself  to  the  theatre.  I  never  thought  of 
becoming  an  actress  till  I  was  one;  and  I  was  one 
without  knowing  why.  Art  has  this  unconscious- 
ness that  it  walks  straight  to  a  point  which  is  not 
the  limit  but  the  means  of  reaching  this.  Do  you 
believe  the  ideal  to  be  an  airy  and  unscalable 

47 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

castle,  or  not  rather  a  succession  of  steps  ever 
rising  and  so  steep  that  when  the  last  is  reached 
the  first  is  out  of  sight? 

Oh,  no!  I  solemnly  assure  you,  into  my 
girlish  dreams  there  entered  no  lustre  of  the 
stage  and  that  that  day  when  on  the  peak  of  a 
hill  I  invoked  God  as  my  greatest  aspiration,  I 
knew  not  myself  what  I  desired.  Was  it  love? 
Was  it  glory?  Perhaps  something  more  than 
these.  My  longings  were  boundless. 

St.  Augustine  says:  "What  I  wish,  what  I 
yearn  for,  is  to  love  and  to  be  loved."  Yes,  but 
what  is  meant  by  being  loved?  And  to  love?  O 
deep  and  difficult  knowledge  ! 

Issued  from  the  convent,  I  thought  I  loved 
my  new  condition,  the  family  that  housed  me  and 
the  children  confided  to  my  care.  I  do  not  know 
how  I  discharged  my  duties,  but  I  was  thought 
affectionate.  My  operative  seriousness,  the  jus- 
tice and  dignity  which  informed  my  conduct  had 
their  due  appreciation. 

The  new  companions  thus  accidentally  mine 
appeared  externally  more  elevated  than  the  poor 
woman  whom  for  fourteen  years  I  had  called 
aunt.  Their  gentle,  courteous  manners,  their 
lordly  way  of  living,  at  first  impressed  me  most 
agreeably.  They  belonged  to  that  category  of 
individuals  who,  wishing  to  rise  above  their  class 
and  not  having  means  within  themselves,  employ 

48 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

the  most  distinguished  physician,  attend  the  most 
fashionable  church,  and  for  nothing  in  the  world 
would  frequent  a  house  where  it  was  not  severely 
prohibited  to  speak  in  a  loud  voice. 

I  acknowledge  that  their  ideal  was  not  abso- 
lutely vulgar,  but  all  my  sympathy  was  gone 
when  I  saw  them  exercise  the  same  zeal  in  not 
losing  a  mass  or  in  not  touching  fish  with  a  knife. 

Education,  they  often  repeated,  is  the  thing 
most  necessary  to  a  superior  person,  and  by  edu- 
cation everything  was  meant  in  this  family;  it  was 
the  pivot  upon  which  turned  all  their  affections, 
interests,  customs,  tastes,  amusements,  relations, 
decisions.  They  admired  talent,  for  that  indi- 
cated an  educated  person;  they  admired  music, 
the  sea,  moonlight,  /  Promessi  Sposi,  the  "  Excel- 
sior" of  Longfellow,  the  "Angelus"  of  Millet.  I 
learned  much  while  I  was  with  them.  A  quantity 
of  exact  and  cold  data  began  to  populate  the  va- 
cant places  in  my  memory;  I  divested  myself 
of  gestures  and  improper  phrases,  rags  of  my 
wretched  childhood.  There  was  revealed  to  me 
then  a  faculty  which  I  possess  in  the  highest  de- 
gree, that  of  a  perfect  digestion ;  to  assimilate 
from  a  scanty  nutriment  the  best  ingredients.  In 
one  year  I  absorbed  the  psychical  material  which 
that  whole  family  had  been  patiently  accumulating 
through  two  or  three  generations  of  learned  ped- 
ants; I  had  sucked  all  the  blood  that  there  was 
in  that  pompous  display  of  soft  brawn  incapable 

49 


THE    SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

of  reactionary  nourishment;  as  for  me  I  was  like 
a  snake  when  in  the  tepidity  of  the  summer  sun 
he  invests  himself  with  a  new  skin,  issuing  from 
the  old  and  leaving  it  dry  behind  him. 

But  to  issue  from  that  skin  was  not  easy.  I 
often  accused  myself  of  ingratitude  and  tried  to 
persuade  myself  that  I  could  not  have  a  better 
fate.  In  fact,  what  was  lacking  to  me?  Certain 
gradual  asphyxiations  that  slowly  kill  do  not  give 
the  victim  any  sense  of  a  want  of  air;  and  that 
death  is  the  sweetest  of  all,  in  the  midst  of 
flowers,  a  smile  upon  the  lips,  the  mind  lost  in 
visions. 

Sometimes  I  seemed  to  move  in  a  Japanese 
scene,  one  of  those  scenes  painted  upon  paunchy 
vases  and  upon  delicate  screens,  where  the  houses 
are  transparent,  the  people  incorporeal  and  the 
trees  and  animals  fossilized;  scenes  without  per- 
spective, irritating  in  their  lack  of  shadow  con- 
cepts, where  the  storks,  stretched  out  above  a 
lonely  plain,  glide  with  motionless,  laminate, 
argent  wings  through  an  unatmospheric  heaven. 

A  languorous  illness  beset  me,  which  they 
called  anemia.  They  said  I  had  grown  too 
fast,  which  was  not  true,  and  they  said,  too, 
that  I  lived  too  much  within  myself,  and  this 
was  true. 

To  show  myself  grateful  to  my  benefactors 
who  wished  to  procure  me  some  distraction,  I 
went  into  society.  At  first,  because  this  was  new, 

50 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

I  was  amused,  or,  rather,  I  hoped  to  be  (truly,  it 
is  thought  that  a  cage  of  canary  birds  in  a  draw- 
ing-room amuse  themselves,  and  that  the  dear 
little  creatures  keep  each  other  company);  but  I 
understood  very  soon  that  amusement  is  not  for 
me;  the  very  word  is  an  aversion  to  me.  In  the 
very  midst  of  an  entertainment,  when  every  one 
else  was  gay,  I  would  ask  myself:  Wherefore? 
And  I  felt  myself  solitary.  It  was  impossible 
for  me  to  establish  any  kind  of  communication 
between  me  and  all  those  people,  men  and  women. 
Their  language  was  mine,  but  they  gave  a  differ- 
ent expression  to  their  words — and  how  many 
of  these  were  in  flight,  from  insufferable  feminine 
verbosity,  from  insolent  male  presumption  —  so 
rapidly  darting,  circulating,  blatant,  fleeting — like 
boisterous  winds  and  as  empty.  The  more  the 
others  talked,  the  muter  I  grew.  I  experienced 
a  genuine  suffering  made  up  of  humiliation  and 
disdain,  and  even  more  of  profound  melancholy. 
I  tried  to  conquer  myself,  but  in  vain.  I  said  to 
myself:  Why  do  all  these  people  live,  move, 
speak,  and  not  one  such  as  I  dream? 

The  contrasts  between  being  and  seeming 
which  had  irritated  me  from  childhood  renewed 
themselves  on  a  greater  scale,  giving  me  an  in- 
ternal exasperation  I  am  powerless  to  describe. 

When  I  was  living  in  the  miserable  home  of 
my  aunt  I  had  formed  an  idea  of  a  world  apart, 

5' 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

a  world  in  which  should  materialize  for  me  the 
things  I  loved — beauty,  distinction,  intelligence. 
Did  such  a  world  really  exist,  and  where?  In  the 
aristocracy,  perhaps?  I  had  always  delighted  in 
this  word,  and  now  that  I  was  already  beginning 
to  be  called  aristocratic  with  a  manifest  intention 
of  distinguishing  me,  I  rejoiced  and  accepted  the 
baptism.  The  idea  of  an  uninterrupted  chain  of 
superior  generations  seemed  to  me  a  great  and 
beautiful  thing.  I  thought  then  that  society 
should  be  precisely  divided  into  two  parts,  and  I 
sought  the  better  one,  there  to  stretch  my  pilgrim 
tent.  Having  no  family  ties,  I  could  indeed 
form  these  by  election;  no  rank  intimidated  me, 
and  in  complete  innocence  of  vanity  I  would 
have  mounted  a  throne,  simply  because  this 
would  take  me  some  steps  nearer  to  heaven;  to 
be  great,  beneficent,  saintly,  to  lift  up  those  about 
me,  what  a  dream !  Or  even  this,  to  know  true 
beauty  in  some  one  else,  true  greatness,  true 
saintliness,  to  prostrate  myself  and  to  adore!  I 
made  almost  no  distinction  between  these  two 
extrinsic  modes,  if  only  the  thing  might  be.  You 
understand,  do  you  not? 

But  I  was  not  content  with  a  fraction,  I 
wished  the  ideal  splendid  and  entire.  I  reasoned 
thus :  I  am  beautiful,  I  am  healthy,  I  am  intel- 
ligent, I  am  noble,  therefore  I  please  myself. 
However,  my  pleasure  is  not  complete  because 
my  beauty  is  not  absolute,  nor  my  health  unas- 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

sailable,  nor  my  intelligence  genius,  nor  my 
nobility  perfection.  But  if  I  could  attain  to  this, 
I  should  have  happiness  —  I,  in  its  perfection  and 
omnipotence  —  that  is,  in  the  possibility  of  diffus- 
ing the  greatest  good  and  in  the  increasing  the 
number  of  the  happy.  Is  not  this  the  noblest 
scope  of  life? 

Suddenly  I  decided  upon  the  theatre.  Was 
not  that  my  way  to  console,  to  do  good?  Ought 
every  one  to  work  out  his  righteous  impulses  in 
the  one  way,  or  not  rather  each  one  according  to 
his  own  means?  To  give  a  piece  of  bread  is  per- 
haps more  meritorious  or  more  profitable  than 
to  give  a  ray  of  light,  a  livelier  pulsation,  a 
smile?  To  nourish  the  body  is  a  nobler  deed 
than  to  nourish  the  soul?  When  I  broke  the 
divine  bread  of  my  art  to  a  hungry  public  who 
went  away  happier  and  better,  nobler  and  purer, 
was  my  work  wholly  different  from  hers  who 
reaches  to  the  poor  clothes  wrought  by  her  own 
hands?  Others  have  wool,  crochet-needles  and 
the  skill  to  use  them  and  give  of  their  industry 
for  the  comfort  of  those  who  suffer  from  the 
cold.  I  have  but  a  soul,  ardent,  vibrant,  and  I 
open  this  up  to  those  who  are  cold  in  their  in- 
most being.  I  give  love,  faith,  interest,  which 
solaces,  exalts  and  recreates. 

Have  men  ever  thought  of  the  good  which 
comes  to  them  from  the  stage,  of  the  sorrows 

53 


THE    SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

which  the  actress  has  assuaged,  of  the  smiles  she 
has  enticed,  of  the  new  thoughts  dropped  like 
seeds  in  young  minds,  of  the  words  which  have 
calmed  stormy  hearts?  Verily  I  say,  that  when 
the  actress  weeps,  she  sheds  the  tears  of  a  whole 
world. 

O  that  heart  which  throbs  with  love  and  hate ! 

To  think  how  many  believe  they  love  who 
have  souls  so  cold,  so  impassive!  Yet  they 
bestir  themselves  with  art,  with  poetry,  with  pas- 
sion, with  idealism. 

They  do  not  hate,  therefore  they  think  they 
love. 

Hate,  behold  the  great  and  noble  sentiment, 
the  sentiment  ideal  par  excellence.  Are  you 
not  persuaded  that  Dante  and  Shakespeare,  the 
two  poets  of  profound  and  obscure  passions, 
were  inspired  above  all  by  hate?  Ophelia  and 
Beatrice  have  emerged  from  a  hecatomb  of  per- 
sons and  of  things  which  these  writers  hated,  and 
it  is  from  a  stupendous  mound  of  such  cadavers 
angrily  trodden  under  foot  that  genius  evokes  its 
most  potent  creations.  Love  knows  not  itself 
without  its  herald,  hate.  Otherwise  what  appre- 
ciations were  possible?  To  love,  is  not  that  to 
choose?  To  choose,  is  not  that  to  prefer  one  to 
many,  one  to  all  others? 

It  is  like  this:  We  see  filing  before  us  a 
crowd  (the  indifferent  —  say  the  indifferent — but 

54 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

there  is  no  such  thing  as  indifference  to  an  ardent 
soul, —  our  indifference  is  aversion).  They  file,  one, 
two,  a  thousand,  each  one  wounding  some  sensi- 
bility, tearing  away  the  folds  of  a  jealous  veil, 
accumulating  in  our  hearts  disdain,  contempt, 
nausea,  until  the  Elect  appears.  He  appears,  and 
the  whole  accumulation  of  hate  breaks  up  and 
divides  like  the  waters  of  the  mysterious  sea  at 
the  touch  of  the  divine  rod,  and  from  the  depths 
Love  emerges, —  love,  great  for  all  who  have 
suffered,  secure  for  those  who  have  seen,  love 
that  is  not  the  innocent  flower  fallen  from  the 
wing  of  an  angel,  but  a  flame  that  has  burned  its 
way  out  of  the  soul,  love  that  knows,  "a  grown- 
up god." 

My  patrons  who  were  on  the  watch  for  every 
occasion  to  practice  the  culture,  and  to  have  ever- 
more the  reputation  of  intelligent  people,  took 
me  to  see  the  furniture  of  an  old  palace  fated  for 
the  auctioneer's  hammer  in  consequence  of  the 
bankruptcy  of  its  owner.  Making  the  tour  of 
these  magnificent  rooms,  they  said  :  "Poor  duke, 
so  good,  so  kind,  and  so  well  educated!" 

This  sort  of  sympathy  found  no  echo  in  me. 
The  goodness,  the  kindness,  the  education  of  the 
duke  seemed  to  me  small  compared  with  the 
mortification  of  the  great  idea  which  that  ruin 
represented,  compared  with  the  compassion  I  felt 
for  the  abandoned  house,  with  all  its  treasures  of 

55 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

association,  those  portraits,  those  vestments,  those 
long,  patient  embroideries,  those  closed  coffers, 
all  that  paraphernalia  so  eloquently  mute  in  the 
noble  melancholy  of  a  seeming  death.  What 
especially  touched  me  was  a  framed  portrait  of 
the  duke  when  a  baby.  It  was  a  design  in  chiar- 
oscuro, done  by  his  mother,  and  had  this  inscrip- 
tion written  in  a  light  and  trembling  hand :  "  Love 
made  thee  and  here  Love  paints  thee."  What 
could  be  more  delicate?  And  what  sadder  in  the 
midst  of  this  ruin? 

From  earliest  girlhood,  when  taste  is  yet  but 
instinct,  and  in  a  time  when  the  predominate  style 
was  cold  and  inharmonious,  the  style  which  the 
beginning  of  the  century  imposed  upon  furniture 
and  apparel,  I  was  drawn  by  the  blind  passion  of 
a  child  to  the  fragments  of  great  antique  art. 
Relegated  to  a  rubbish  heap,  there  was  in  my 
aunt's  house  a  rusty  little  coffer  of  beaten  iron 
covered  with  faded  velvet  eaten  away  at  the 
corners,  its  lock  battered,  and  with  two  feet  in- 
stead of  four — the  two  back  ones — so  that  it 
stood  all  humble,  in  a  prostrate  attitude,  almost 
as  if  begging  the  grace  of  being  let  live;  and  this 
coffer  had  from  me  a  long  tribute  of  admiration, 
of  desire,  of  sweet  and  fantastic  thoughts,  of 
legends  strange,  amorous,  palpitating.  It  seemed 
to  me  most  beautiful,  while  every  one  else  called 
it  ugly.  I  found  interesting,  too,  an  "Agnus 
Dei"  my  aunt  had  from  a  relative,  a  nun,  which 

56 


THE    SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

must  have  been  very  old,  with  its  yellow  satin 
and  its  undefinable  perfume  of  incense  and  of 
dried  roses,  suggestive  to  me  of  the  ringers  of 
dead  sisters;  and  another  thing  of  beauty  to  me 
was  a  majolica  plate,  white  and  perforated,  from 
which  my  aunt  let  the  cat  feed. 

All,  all  these  old  things,  things  which  had 
lived  and  must  have  known  smiles  and  tears — I 
loved  them  every  one.  And  plastic  beauty,  too, 
the  floriture  of  the  beaten  iron,  the  form  of  the 
lock,  the  woof  of  the  velvet  on  the  coffer,  the 
color  of  the  satin  on  the  "Agnus  Dei,"  the  simple 
perforation  of  the  plate  spoke  to  my  eyes  the 
language  of  a  proud  art,  which  was  not  then  the 
fashion,  for  which  no  one  cared,  and  to  which  was 
preferred  the  frumpish  arrangement  of  rigid  and 
angular  lines.  Ah !  I  loved  antique  art  too  much, 
with  a  silent,  reserved  and  isolated  passion  when 
it  was  abandoned  and  derided,  to  be  able  to  join 
the  chorus  of  the  formerly  indifferent  who  now 
are  loud  in  homage,  following  the  fashion,  cata- 
logue in  hand. 

Two  or  three  days  before,  my  patrons  had 
read,  conscientiously,  reviews  and  books  of  art 
to  get  by  heart  how  far  they  should  enthuse  for 
Donatello  rather  than  for  Luca  della  Robbia,  for 
Holbein  or  for  Albert  Durer,  and  had  thoroughly 
studied  the  style  of  the  fourteenth  century  artists 
in  order  not  to  confound  these  with  their  suc- 
cessors; therefore  each  picture  or  statue  waited 

57 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

its  meed  of  praise  till  the  name  of  the  author 
was  assured.  The  asterisks  in  the  catalogue  were 
needed  to  heat  them  up,  but  steam  once  on,  away 
the  good  people  went  like  locomotives,  keep- 
ing well  to  the  track.  They  said :  "A  Raphael, 
what  a  marvel!  a  Dolci,  a  little  effeminate!  a 
Titian,  what  luxuriance !  a  Veronese,  what  force ! 
a  Del  Sarto,  what  delicacy!"  (O  dear  picture 
seen  at  San  Miniato,  away  back  at  the  left, 
which  the  guide,  to  my  consummate  joy,  classi- 
fied as  "by  an  unknown  artist"!  Do  you 
remember  it?) 

The  antique  armor,  the  gigantic  cuirasses 
made  them  arch  their  brows  with  an  expression 
at  once  of  terror  and  of  admiration.  The  ivories, 
the  Japanese  lacquer,  the  enamels,  so  delicate  in 
their  azure  and  diaphanous  tints,  bent  them  over 
the  glass  cases  in  respectful  attitude,  while  they 
were  tempted  to  touch,  but  refrained,  being  the 
well-educated  people  that  they  were.  They  pro- 
nounced no  opinion  concerning  the  jewels;  they 
really  did  not  admire  the  ornaments,  but  the 
mode  was  too  strong  a  current  to  pull  against. 
With  great  care  they  lifted  the  cups,  the  little 
porcelain  vases,  and  when  they  discovered  two 
crossed  swords  or  the  three  DDD  they  ex- 
changed a  look  of  intelligence  not  devoid  of 
pride.  They  discussed  the  names  of  the  laces: 
Malines,  Valencienne,  Venetian  Point?  A  fan 
of  mother-of-pearl  which  had  belonged  to  the 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

Princess  of  Lamballe  made  them  exclaim  in 
chorus :  "  Unfortunate  woman ! " 

The  other  visitors  looked  with  wonder  upon 
so  well-informed  a  family  who  spoke  so  apropos 
of  everything,  but  all  this  calculated  enthusiasm 
turned  me  to  ice.  Enthusiasm  I  understand  only 
a  deux;  three  even  is  too  many. 

Different  friends  and  acquaintances  joined 
our  group,  among  them  an  old  poet,  a  young 
novelist  and  two  ladies.  The  novelist,  very  ele- 
gant, with  shoes  so  varnished  that  they  distracted 
attention  from  the  crystals,  was  turning  over  a 
portfolio  of  authentic  papers. 

"He  is  seeking  c material' !"  said  the  poet. 

"And  you,  what  do  you  seek  in  that  table- 
service?"  was  asked  him. 

"Oh,  naturally  the  perfume  of  the  food  of  the 
seventeenth  century,"  the  novelist  sarcastically 
exclaimed.  (The  poet  had  once  been  a  patriotic 
verse-maker,  but,  his  ardor  extinguished,  he  now 
declared  that  the  greatest  poetry  is  that  of  a  good 
dinner.) 

The  two  ladies  were  looking  at  a  purse  of 
pearl-colored  satin,  embroidered  in  pink  in  high 
relief,  the  exquisite  work  of  the  great -grand- 
mother of  the  duke. 

"Pity,"  said  one  of  them,  "that  it's  not  full 
of  yellow  money !" 

"  I,"  replied  the  other  in  noble  rivalry, 
"would  prefer  it  without." 

59 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

"Who  are  they?"  I  asked  softly  of  my  pro- 
tectrix,  who  replied  with  great  eagerness : 

"Two  great  ladies;  their  ancestors  were  at 
the  crusades." 

I  did  not  reply,  but  a  deep  sadness  welled  up 
in  me,  and  the  accustomed  flame  of  odium  and 
the  usual  violent  longing  for  solitude,  so  that, 
feigning  fatigue,  I  let  myself  fall  into  a  big  chair, 
exhausted  really  by  the  thirst  to  be  loved  and  to 
be  understood. 

O  God!  when  would  this  be?  To  be  loved 
is  nothing  if  we  are  not  understood. 

Au  temps  ou  vous  m ' aimiez  (  bien  sur  )  ? 

Do  you  remember  one  evening?  —  I  was 
seated  with  my  back  towards  the  window,  you 
almost  in  front  of  me,  in  a  somewhat  dark  cor- 
ner, under  that  French  intaglio  which  represents 
L'Oragey  and  which  so  much  pleases  you. 

You  had  spoken  much  of  the  English  poets, 
of  their  sane  sentiment,  simple  and  pure,  of  the 
moral  force  which  dominates  your  country  and 
makes  it  great  above  all  others.  Your  so  virile 
voice,  firm  and  sonorous  as  bronze,  still  resounded 
in  the  quiet  room,  in  the  mild  evening,  and  — 
why  not  say  it  ? — in  my  heart.  The  ideas  evolved 
by  you  with  skilled  and  certain  logic  awakened 
in  me  a  hundred  records,  sweet,  dubious,  quiet, 
distant,  confused,  among  which,  like  the  tuner  of 
an  instrument,  I  sought  the  key-note.  Suddenly, 

60 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

a  little  impatiently,  but  still  very  gently,  you 
said:  "Do  you  not  know  how  to  talk?"  (The 
night  had  come  upon  us  unawares,  and  of  L'Orage 
nothing  now  was  to  be  seen  but  the  floating  veil 
of  the  girl.) 

I  bent  my  head — how  well  I  remember!  —  a 
string  of  pearls  about  my  neck  broke,  and  while 
I  gropingly  sought  the  pearls  as  a  moment  before 
I  had  sought  ideas,  I  replied: 

"It  is  true,  I  do  not  know  how  to  talk." 

What  did  you  think  of  so  silly  a  remark  ?  I 
well  saw  that  you  did  not  understand  it  in  its 
profound  moral  agony.  But  I  tell  you  now  that 
I  have  passed  my  life  with  the  desire  of  speech. 
How  I  have  dreamed  of  some  one  who  might 
feel  as  I,  think  as  I,  suffer  and  enjoy  in  every 
way  as  I  had  suffered  and  enjoyed,  and  who 
should  love  me  as  I  him,  to  whom  I  could  say 
everything.  But  if  you  cannot  say  everything, 
why  speak  at  all  ?  Do  you  understand  ? 

So  it  was,  in  consequence  of  the  silence  of  all 
my  youth  that  by  a  desperate  reaction  I  entered 
upon  a  career  in  which  I  should  speak, —  not  in 
my  own  words,  of  which  I  never  was  mistress, 
but  in  the  words  of  men  of  genius,  of  poets,  of 
heroes.  At  last  I  could  cry  out  in  hate  or  love, 
lift  a  hymn  to  my  ideals,  be  by  turns  pure,  proud, 
ardent,  submissive,  implacable — Phedra,  Ophe- 
lia, Marguerite. 

Do  you  conceive  the  joy  of  unrestrained  utter- 

61 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

ance  before  a  thousand  of  people,  and  of  be- 
ing able  to  weep  deep  and  loud  without  offense 
to  our  reserve,  without  treason  to  our  secret, 
feeling  that  a  thousand  hearts  weep  with  ours  ? 
Well,  believe  one  who  knows,  it  is  a  superhuman 


I  have  always  acted  "The  Wedding  Visit," 
putting  my  heart's  blood  into  it,  and  will  you 
believe  that  many  regard  this  jewel  of  tears  as  a 
light  comedy,  and  if  its  epigrams  do  not  take  it 
is  a  complete  failure  !  I  mean  it  when  I  say  that 
my  blood  goes  into  the  part  as  I  am  called  upon 
to  express  that  disgust  of  love  which  has  reached 
its  limit,  which  is  no  longer  either  to  believe  or 
hope,  to  desire  or  lament,  which,  in  fine,  is  dead, 
dead  indeed,  for  its  soul  has  been  taken  from  it. 
I  have  acted  all  this  for  I  have  felt  it,  oh,  so  well  ! 

It  is  not  all  vanity  which  makes  us  prefer 
our  opera  to  all  others.  It  is  because  we  so 
thoroughly  understand  it,  as  it  is,  and  as  it  should 
be.  You  see,  do  you  not,  the  disproportion?  A 
great  artist  is  a  great  lover,  and  for  a  lover  his 
own  is  the  only  love. 

Study  is  for  pedagogues,  the  learned,  the 
wise  ;  to  become  artists  it  is  necessary  to  love  one 
thing  intensely,  and  when  that  thing  is  within  us 
we  are  called  egoists. 

Critics,  however,  suggest  to  me  to  consult 
this  or  that  author,  and  my  fellow  actors  exhort 
me  to  go  into  society  so  that  I  may  know  how 

62 


THE    SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

to  render  the  passions  well.  I  have  always  smiled 
disdainfully  at  such  counsel;  and  when  once  a 
novice,  beautiful,  elegant,  rosy,  cold,  asked  me 
how  she  should  learn  my  art,  I  answered,  "  Weep, 
if  you  can,  as  I  do."  Yes,  I  repeat  it,  there  is  no 
other  art;  weep  burning  tears,  and  write  and 
paint  and  speak  them. 

They  call  me  proud:  it  is  true.  They  call 
me  scornful :  it  is  true.  They  say  I  do  not  love 
my  fellow  beings;  to  this  you  alone  could  make 
reply.  You  know  if  I  love  my  fellow  beings. 

Which  is  the  bee? 

There  flourished  (the  memory  of  it  is  still 
recent)  a  sweet  April,  and  I  was  coming  through 
the  St.  Augustine  gate  at  Bergamo,  taking  the 
road  to  the  left  leading  from  the  mountain. 

I  was  thinking  that  you  did  not  know  Ber- 
gamo, the  delicious,  and  in  thought  I  was  show- 
ing it  to  you  with  all  the  pomp  and  majesty  of 
its  past,  so  concealed  by  fresh  and  ever-renascent 
beauty.  Your  image  combined  with  the  intense 
blue  of  the  sky,  with  the  charm  of  the  valley, 
with  the  tender  green  springing  on  all  sides ! 
Your  name  rose  odorously  through  the  air  with 
the  perfume  of  the  elegant  glycyrrhiza,  remind- 
ing me  of  your  phrase  "elegance!  that  rare 
quality,"  a  phrase  which  emphasizes  deficiency 
in  a  great  deal  of  modern  art. 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

A  whole  congregation  of  lofty  ideas,  yours, 
kept  pace  with  me,  now  silent,  now  loquacious, 
as  you  yourself  would  have  accompanied  me. 
Where  were  your  profound  eyes?  There  they 
were,  I  saw  them;  and  I  saw  your  mouth  with 
its  spiritual  smile.  My  admiration  was  redoubled, 
evoking  what  you  would  have  felt.  You  would 
have  said  (I  am  most  certain),  "What  purity!" 
and  I  would  have  answered:  "It  is  true." 

Above,  in  the  hanging  gardens  of  the  wall, 
below,  along  the  gentle  slope,  among  the  shadows 
of  the  vine-trellises,  along  the  now  rainless  eaves, 
about  the  windows,  within  the  arches  of  the  aban- 
doned gateways,  the  ivy  and  the  vine,  the  convol- 
vulus and  the  honeysuckle,  and  in  the  interstices 
of  the  old  stones  there  spread  great  patches  of 
green  and  red  from  the  clove-odorous  gilly- 
flower, the  ranunculus,  the  dandelion,  and  upon 
the  window-sills,  jealously  guarded,  double  ge- 
raniums of  a  deep  crimson.  I  thought:  Which 
is  the  bee?  Ants,  butterflies,  flies,  worms  fly  or 
crawl  towards  the  flowers,  but  which  knows  how 
to  extract  the  honey,  which  is  the  bee  ? 

Upon  the  deserted  road  all  white  and  sunny 
in  the  midst  of  the  green,  a  man's  step  sounded 
behind  me.  If  it  might  be  You !  In  my  almost 
hypnotic  condition  the  lines  of  reality  lost  them- 
selves in  the  vapors  of  dream.  I  turned  quickly. 
It  was  a  young  man,  handsome  and  courteous 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN   ARTIST 

enough  not  too  much  to  profane  you,  and  for 
this  I  was  almost  grateful  to  him,  and  as  I  had 
stopped  in  my  ecstatic  attitude,  he  also  paused. 
The  shadow  of  my  parasol  surrounded  me 
almost  like  a  veil,  and  across  this  I  looked  at 
him;  but  I  was  thinking  of  you,  seeking  you, 
and  for  a  moment  he  looked  at  me  as  if  he  recog- 
nized me  and  expected  from  me  some  revelation. 
Curious,  these  glances  which  sometimes  pass  be- 
tween man  and  woman,  laden  with  remembrances 
and  desires,  sudden,  audacious,  naked,  leaving  an 
impression  of  a  confusing  stroke,  as  if  from  an 
arrow  intended  for  another  and  coming  whence 
one  knows  not.  The  moment  of  embarrassment 
and  I  know  not  what  recondite  curiosity  could 
not  be  prolonged.  To  release  us  both  in  some 
way  or  other  I  asked  the  direction  to  the  Carrara 
Gallery. 

I  went  thither  because  I  had  been  told  there 
were  three  madonnas  of  Giambellini.  O  my 
Master,  you  see  indeed  that  you  were  with  me! 
You  it  was  who  made  known  to  me  this  kind  of 
sentiment. 

Passing  from  the  white  glare  of  the  street  to 
the  penumbra  of  the  gallery,  every  external  im- 
pression vanished.  I  had  before  my  eyes,  precise 
and  complete,  our  Madonna,  her,  the  true  mother 
of  Jesus,  so  pallid,  so  sad  under  her  green  mantle, 
her  weary  gaze  fixed  in  the  presageful  void, —  gaze 
that  saw  already  the  via  dolorosa,  gaze  which 

65 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

waited,  which  knew!  I  had  before  me  that  mouth 
already  sealed  by  mysterious  sorrow,  that  line 
which  cut  the  cheek,  removing  every  vestige  of 
innocent  voluptuousness,  so  spiritually,  so  se- 
verely beautiful.  I  remembered  the  ecstatic 
wonder  which  took  us  both  when  we  saw  it  for 
the  first  time  at  Brera,  and  how  it  was  impossible 
for  us  to  speak,  and  how  we  pressed  each  other's 
hands  in  silence,  somewhat  aghast,  you  pale  with 
emotion,  and  I  red.  And  then  how,  very  slowly, 
and  lowering  my  voice  as  if  in  a  sacred  place,  I 
said  to  you :  "  Look,  too,  at  the  tiny  Jesus. 
Have  you  ever  seen  its  equal?  He  is  really 
the  son  of  that  mother;  he  resembles  her,  has 
the  same  intent  and  sombre  eyes,  the  same 
mouth  which,  not  being  able  to  express  the 
sorrow  of  a  mature  man,  curves  to  the  mute 
plaint  of  a  baby  surprised  by  some  great  an- 
guish." And  you  nodded  "Yes."  "No  other 
painter  has  even  thought  of  the  necessary  re- 
semblance between  mother  and  son,  above  all 
between  this  mother  and  this  son.  How  great 
this  is,  is  it  not?"  Again  you  nodded  "Yes." 
"Look,  look,  the  fruit  he  holds  in  his  hand  is 
about  to  fall,  and  he  pays  no  attention,  does  not 
seem  to  care  —  perhaps  it  is  a  baby  like  others, 
He?"  "Yes,  yes,"  you  said  at  last,  "all  this  is 
great.  In  this  Madonna,  Giambellini  has  sur- 
passed himself." 

Renewing  this  scene  mentally,  I  was  aware 

66 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

that  I  found  a  new  sweetness  in  it.  Could  it  be 
true  that  a  happy  memory  is  sometimes  sweeter 
than  reality  itself?  The  fugitive  joy  of  a  moment 
may  grow  and  endure  with  the  moments  which 
thought  adds  to  it. 

Along  the  walls  of  the  gallery  there  was  a 
file  of  the  battles  of  Borgognone,  the  peasants 
of  Teniers,  the  landscapes  of  Zuccarelli.  In  the 
profound  silence  there  could  scarcely  be  heard 
my  guide's  step  —  you  know  mine  falls  most 
lightly.  I  looked  for  the  madonnas  of  Giam- 
bellini  with  a  passionate  curiosity,  full  of  desire, 
sending  distracted  glances  towards  the  portraits 
of  Moroni  which  gloom  amidst  the  warm  tints 
of  Titian's  school. 

A  beautiful  little  madonna  of  Gandenzio 
Ferrari  smiled  at  me  from  its  deep  frame.  "It  is 
not  thou,"  1  murmured,  passing  by.  I  was  sud- 
denly taken  by  two  strange  heads  of  Mantegna. 
What  would  You  have  thought  of  them?  This 
became  my  keen  preoccupation.  I  felt  your  ad- 
miration; bent  over  the  canvas  I  saw  the  shadow 
of  your  profile,  attentive,  serious,  and  your  fine 
lips  pressed  still  closer  in  the  intensity  of  your 
interest.  The  room  containing  Mantegna's  paint- 
ing is  very  little,  a  kind  of  cabinet  annexed  to 
the  principal  gallery;  the  custodian  had  not  fol- 
lowed me — I  was  alone  before  the  master-piece  — 
so  alone  that  in  the  ravishment  of  admiration  I 
murmured:  "Lawrence" 

6? 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

Exquisite  pleasure  this  of  pronouncing  a  dear 
name  in  the  presence  of  beauty! 

But  it  seemed  to  me  —  since  I  felt  you  so 
close  to  me — that  your  soul,  too,  had  come  back 
to  our  Madonna,  so  pale,  so  sad,  and  more  touch- 
ing and  truer  than  that  of  Mantegna,  greater 
above  all  in  its  extraordinary  internal  melancholy 
which  had  once  so  moved  us. 

And  I  looked  no  farther,  not  even  for  the 
other  madonnas  of  Giambellini,  for  which  I  had 
come. 

"Lawrence" — I  murmured  again,  coming 
out  upon  the  sunny  road  which  smote  my 
lids  close,  and  underneath  them  trembled  the 
picture  of  our  Lady  of  Sorrows. 

I  make  confession.  When  I  conceived  the 
idea  of  writing  my  impressions,  when  the  first 
pages  were  complete  and  I  saw  the  work  growing 
under  my  hands,  I  asked  a  celebrated  author: 
"  How  does  one  write  a  book  in  which  one  wishes 
to  say  everything  one  has  at  heart?"  The  author 
looked  at  me  smilingly,  but  with  an  expression  of 
interest  and  extreme  kindness. 

"For  whom  are  you  writing  this  book?  For 
the  public?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

I  pronounced  this  "no"  so  resolutely  that  he 
added  quickly : 

"Since  this  is  so,  pay  no  heed  to  method. 

68 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

Open  your  hearts  as  the  ancients  did  the  .fliolian 
harps  to  the  shock  of  the  winds  and  let  it  sing, 
let  it  cry." 

You  knew  this  author,  and,  after  your  manner, 
a  little  loved  him.  He  belongs  to  no  school,  lives 
apart  from  the  world,  feels  intensely,  writes  sin- 
cerely. I  follow  his  counsel. 

The  greatest  joys  of  my  life  I  owe  to  the 
resolution  which  made  me  an  actress:  I  think 
often  of  the  ancient  belief  in  the  fairy  donations 
at  the  cradle.  My  fairy,  after  having  given  gen- 
erously of  beauty,  power,  money,  talent,  happi- 
ness, family  affections,  not  finding  any  of  these 
gifts  for  me  unimpaired,  must  have  said:  Let  us 
give  this  girl  the  soul  of  an  artist  and  she  shall 
have  rich  compensation.  Thanks,  my  good  fairy  ! 

We  read  together  the  preface  of  Amiel's  in- 
timate diary,  and  you  will  remember  that  passage 
you  thought  applicable  to  me:  "The  intensity 
of  internal  life  makes  a  man  inept  for  his  work. 
A  thinker  like  Amiel  has  no  interest  whatever  in 
persuading  the  spirits  or  in  bending  the  will." 
"I  never  think  of  the  public,"  Amiel  writes, 
"and  I  experience  a  sufficient  joy  in  participating 
in  a  mystery,  in  divining  a  profound  matter,  or  in 
touching  a  sacred  reality.  To  know  is  sufficient 
for  me,  to  express  myself  seems  to  me  sometimes 
profane." 

You  often  reproved  my  aversion  to  activity; 


THE    SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

here  is  my  justification.  If  I  had  done,  if  I  had 
spoken,  I  should  be  like  all  the  others. 

My  success,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  is  due 
to  this  intensity  of  reserve,  to  this  solitary  and 
jealous  participation  in  that  which  Amiel  so  effec- 
tively calls  mystery.  From  my  first  appearance 
on  the  stage,  I  have  adopted  as  my  device  this 
verse  from  an  unknown  and  profound  poet:  Tous 
entendront  ma  voix,  nul  ne  verra  mes  pleurs. 

In  vain  the  gossipy  public  and  the  superficial 
critic  have  essayed  to  discover  my  individuality 
in  the  various  characters  I  represent:  I  keep 
guard  over  my  secret,  my  sentiments,  and  my 
experiences.  For  the  rest,  there  is  no  human  ex- 
perience which  may  not  be  briefly  summed  up 
thus:  I  have  suffered,  and  have  made  suffer. 

Consider  for  a  moment,  I  pray  you,  the  sig- 
nificance of  this  most  beautiful  verse:  "My 
voice  shall  be  heard  by  all  and  none  shall  see  my 
tears."  Is  not  this  the  secret  of  those  works  of 
art  which  take  souls  by  storm  ?  The  public  be- 
lieves in  the  story  the  poet  tells,  is  moved  by 
Marguerite,  Ermengarde,  Eloise,  who  have  never 
existed;  what  matter?  What  matters  the  name, 
the  flame  is  burning  and  sears  where  it  touches. 
The  more  cunning  think:  In  these  personages 
the  author  has  given  his  own  character;  and  they 
seek  the  particulars,  the  remote  accessories,  lose 
themselves  in  words,  in  the  small  involutions  of 
form,  ignoring  the  long  and  profound  artistic 

70 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

elaboration,  where  from  the  marriage  of  sensation 
and  art  is  born  a  fruit  which  people  may  admire 
or  condemn,  very  rarely  understand,  never  com- 
pletely elucidate. 

An  obscure  little  critic  once  said :  "How  well 
one  can  see  that  you  act  for  yourself!"  Did  he 
intend  a  compliment  or  an  offense?  I  never 
cared  to  inquire;  however,  he  spoke  a  great 
truth.  Of  course,  I  act  for  myself;  what  else 
did  he  think?  It  is  a  shoemaker  who  makes 
shoes  for  other  people,  the  artist  works  for  him- 
self. 

I  took  up  dramatic  art  to  satisfy  a  need  of 
my  own  soul :  I  should  have  preferred  to  be  a 
poet  or  a  prose  writer,  if  such  things  lay  in 
choice ;  I  took  the  medium  of  those  who  knew 
better  to  speak  to  my  understanding,  not  having 
an  understanding  fitted  to  communicate  to  others, 
and  that  I  have  preserved  on  the  stage  the  same 
spontaneous  subjectivity,  that  I  have  never  seen 
my  audiences,  never  looked  at  them,  nor  have 
wept  or  laughed  for  them,  although  I  have  shed 
tears  before  thousands  of  people,  as  solitary  and 
distant  from  them  as  though  a  cloister  sheltered 
me, —  this  has  been  the  universal  wonder.  An  ex- 
ceptional form  of  sensibility  is  regarded  as  ex- 
ceptional art,  and  triumph  has  come  to  me  so 
unexpectedly  that  I  can  hardly  make  it  mine. 

Such  unconsciousness  is  perhaps  the  most 
pleasing  part  of  an  artist's  powers,  and  is  that 

71 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN  ARTIST 

which  bears  the  seal  of  her  superior  origin, —  does 
it  not  seem  so  to  you? 

Argument  is  the  language  of  science,  that  of 
art  is  divination.  Young  people  think  it  is  good 
intentions,  but  with  good  intentions  one  may 
transport  one  by  one  a  mass  of  stones,  but  not 
create  one  single  immortal  line  nor  thrill  an  audi- 
ence as  I  myself  did  with  the  cry,  "O  my 
Country  ! "  Behold,  even  now  in  writing  the 
words  I  am  rigid  from  head  to  foot. 

My  country!  magic  word!  The  confines  of 
nations  are  being  canceled,  one's  country  is  no 
longer  circumscribed  by  seas  and  mountains,  but 
though  less  concrete,  it  is  not  less  real.  You  and 
I,  have  we  not  perhaps  a  common  country  though 
not  the  same  nation  ?  And  scattered  through  the 
world,  unknown,  distant,  divided,  have  we  not, 
perhaps,  brothers  ? 

The  union  of  like  to  like  is  a  natural  senti- 
ment which  no  doctrine  shall  ever  destroy.  The 
very  anarchists  who  deny  country  and  family  love 
one  another  and  join  with  their  propaganda  that 
sentiment  which  they  would  annihilate.  Let 
words,  then,  change  their  post,  let  the  vulgar 
adopt  them ;  what  value  have  words  if  not  the 
transitory  and  superficial  one  of  clothes,  which 
wear  out  and  fall  to  rags  ?  The  truth  within 
them,  like  the  flame  of  a  lamp,  is  alone  invari- 
able. Is  it  not  this  we  seek? 


72 


THE    SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

I  feel  I  have  a  Northern  soul.  Everything  at- 
tracts me  to  those  lands  where  nature  is  tranquil, 
where  little  cities  rise,  ploughed  into  by  quiet 
waters,  where  the  woods  are  green  and  the  rain 
falls  often. 

I  love  to  think  of  the  old  houses,  time-black- 
ened, where  the  walls  are  thick  and  the  shadows 
deep  in  the  corners. 

The  mere  sight  of  an  object  which  recalls  the 
fireside  to  me  gives  me  an  intense  thrill  of  delight, 
that  voluptuous  and  imaginative  delight  which 
others  feel  by  the  azure  sea,  under  an  azure  sky ; 
but  not  only  that,  my  pleasure  is  something 
more  intimate,  more  acute,  more  obscure,  more 
profound,  and  if  I  were  not  afraid  of  your  sarcasm 
I  would  say  that  cold  pleases  me  because  I  love 
heat. 

To  bask  in  the  sun,  the  light  blinding  me  and 
the  scene  about  me  distracting,  is  a  pleasure  not 
to  be  compared  with  that  of  watching  the  rain  or 
the  snow  from  a  warm,  secluded  room.  The  joy 
of  thinking  diminishes  in  the  open  and  noises 
lessen  its  intensity;  I  do  not  love  nature  in  parade 
nor  a  city  in  festal  array. 

The  sun,  you  must  admit,  is  a  little  vulgar. 
It  clothes  us  and  nourishes  us,  and  this  is  well, 
and  I  am  very  grateful  for  it,  but  I  prefer  to  eat 
without  seeing  my  cook,  and  when  I  dress,  the 
presence  of  my  milliner  annoys  me.  I  do  not 
say  I  am  right,  but  this  is  how  I  feel. 

73 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

Love  me  when  I  am  dead. 

I  have  just  come  from  the  cemetery  where  I 
have  been  thinking  of  your  sympathy  for  these 
melancholy  and  fascinating  places.  Do  you  re- 
member a  certain  time  ?  We  had  gone  to  look  in 
an  old  abandoned  graveyard  for  the  tomb  of  a 
Russian  girl  who  had  died  in  despair  of  her  ideals. 
We  did  not  find  the  tomb,  and,  a  little  disap- 
pointed and  even  vexed,  we  were  returning  amidst 
the  crosses. 

It  was  late  November.  From  the  grassy  plots, 
from  the  marbles,  from  all  those  forgotten  names, 
from  all  those  hearts  which  had  ceased  to  beat, 
from  those  sepulchred  dramas  closed  in  the  irony 
of  eternal  peace,  a  cold  moisture  rose  and  de- 
scended from  heaven  in  a  subtile  fog,  transparent, 
still,  yet  about  to  fold  its  draperies  more  densely 
like  a  weeping  figure  of  sorrow.  In  silence  I 
took  your  arm  and  pressed  close  to  your  shoulder. 

Do  you  remember? 

You  said:  "How  lonely  the  dead  are!" 

I  cried  out  almost  in  pain  :  "  No,  no,  do  you 
not  see  the  love  of  the  living  follows  the  dead  ? 
Are  not  we  here  ?  " 

I  saw  you  compress  your  lips  as  you  always 
did  when  I  pleased  you,  and  then  we  plunged 
into  the  fog. 

Above  us  brooded  the  enchantment  of  that 
first  day  of  winter ;  we  felt  the  poetic  charm  of 
the  grey  light,  of  the  closed-in  sky,  so  deeply 

74 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

spiritual,  so  fit  for  silent  souls.  Unsought  there 
came  to  our  minds  verses  toned  to  pallid  faces,  to 
phantasms  evoked  from  the  shadows  among  the 
dead  branches  of  the  trees,  where  the  eye  rested 
with  such  profound  quietude  that  sense  seemed  to 
resign  its  place  to  thought.  A  peace  not  of  this 
earth  took  possession  of  us. 

Before  an  antique  tomb  almost  hidden  by  the 
tresses  of  a  willow,  we  stopped,  both  at  once,  as 
often  happened  to  us ;  and,  as  so  many  other  times 
on  the  point  of  pronouncing  the  same  word,  our 
glances  divined  it  together.  Together!  What 
a  rapturous  thing  when  this  is  spoken  of  the 
soul ! 

Do  you  remember  ?     Do  you  remember  ? 

And  today  again  it  was  your  unforgotten  face 
that  I  evoked  from  the  weeping  willows  of  that 
village  cemetery ;  it  was  to  you  I  would  have 
spoken,  it  was  upon  your  breast  I  would  have 
wept.  I  sat  down  near  a  small  hedge  of  myrtle 
surrounding  the  grave  of  a  baby :  the  myrtle  erect, 
sharp,  resistant,  always  green,  strong,  and  pure, 
tolerating  no  other  vegetation  near  it  and  flour- 
ishing in  dear  little  white  roses.  How  like 
you! 

I  gathered  a  branch  of  this  myrtle  into  which, 
perchance,  had  passed  something  of  the  inno- 
cence of  the  child,  and  I  thought  that  life  and 
death  may  have  occult  channels  by  which  an 


75 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

uninterrupted  current  of  sympathy  may  flow  to  us 
from  those  who  are  no  more. 

I  have  heard  many  times  that  there  is  noth- 
ing permanent  in  the  poor  art  of  actors.  But 
among  these  surely  there  are  passionate  souls 
whom  we  still  love,  and  whose  voices,  hushed  for 
centuries,  have  left  an  echo  which  reverberates 
from  generation  to  generation.  Souls  are  not  the 
property  of  the  bodies  which  contain  them.  When 
they  are  grand,  they  have  within  them  the  treas- 
ure of  all  consolations,  of  all  loves,  of  all  aspira- 
tions, and  from  every  part  of  the  earth,  whatever 
the  distance  of  time,  little  needy  souls  rise  and 
fly  to  them  like  flocks  of  wounded  birds. 

Beside  the  record  of  virile  genius  for  which 
immortality  is  expected,  passionate  feminine  souls 
live,  too.  I  know  and  see  that  burning  flame  of 
passion  which  was  Desclee.  Painters  have  pre- 
served for  us  her  pensive  profile  ;  biographies  have 
described  her  to  us  as  pale,  with  great  magnetic 
eyes ;  Dumas,  who  had  the  good  fortune  first  to 
discover  her  unusual  gifts,  says  that  he  received 
the  simple  country  girl  dressed  in  an  old-fash- 
ioned green  gown  and  followed  by  the  old  nurse, 
who  never  left  her ;  they  tell  us  no  more. 

But  I  remember  a  lady  who  had  attended  all 
the  performances  given  by  Desclee,  in  Italy,  and 
when  near  the  grave  she  was  still  all  animation, 
her  eyes  sparkling  and  yet  tearful  when  she  spoke 
of  the  actress. 

76 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

That  animation  and  those  tears  were  not  in 
vain,  because  the  passion  of  Desclee  reached  me 
through  her.  And  why  may  I  not  transmit  it  to 
some  one  else?  This  is  immortality. 

Ah!  that  invisible  breath,  genius  or  senti- 
ment, passion  or  thought,  which  remains  after 
the  dissolution  of  the  flesh  and  awakens,  without 
any  material  aid,  so  ardent  a  sympathy,  is  not 
that  a  proof  of  the  superiority  and  immortality 
of  the  spirit?  Besides  Desclee,  how  many  un- 
knowns I  love!  —  a  great  distant  family  of  conge- 
nial ones  who  are  my  sisters,  whom  I  have  never 
seen  and  never  shall  see. 

And  to  speak  to  the  soul!  To  think  that 
when  my  body  lies  under  the  sod,  my  voice  shall 
still  vibrate,  and  that  I  shall  be  loved,  and  that  I 
shall  live,  shall  live  in  all  the  loves  to  be,  in 
the  great  new  ideals  which  shall  enlighten  the 
earth,  shall  live  always,  as  long  as  passion  stirs 
the  heart  of  man.  No,  no,  the  dead  are  not  alone. 

Who  has  not  been  happy  one  hour  in  his 
life?  But  what  is  this  fleeting  happiness?  In  the 
joy  of  the  moment  I  have  always  panted  for  in- 
finite joy.  The  clock  goes,  goes,  goes,  and  that 
continuity  of  movement  surprises  and  attracts 
me;  but  a  blow,  a  change  of  temperature  stops 
it,  and  I  think  that  the  beauty  of  its  mechanism 
is  but  relative,  since  it  depends  upon  the  resist- 
ance of  brute  force.  I  seek  that  which  is  lasting, 
which  ends  never.  The  immortality  conceived 

77 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

by  paganism  for  its  heroes,  the  second  life  prom- 
ised to  the  Christians,  do  they  meet  this  great 
need?  Nothing  is  really  beautiful,  nothing  is 
really  true  if  it  ends;  but  believe  this,  too:  noth- 
ing which  is  truly  beautiful  ever  ends.  How 
many  dead  are  more  alive  than  the  living! 

In  the  hours  of  the  happy  past,  when  you 
were  at  my  side,  and  I  read  in  your  eyes,  and 
listened  to  your  bronze-like,  sonorous  voice,  in 
the  complete  reality  of  your  presence  which 
seemed  to  promise  the  culmination  of  my  prayers, 
oh!  then,  even  then, —  and  who  knows  what  you 
may  have  thought  of  me? — I  silently  groaned; 
this  will  end 

But  now,  in  the  desperate  certainty  of  never 
seeing  you  again,  when  the  world  and  perhaps 
death  divides  us,  when  you  cannot  hear  me,  and 
I  can  hope  nothing,  what  so  ardently  dear  to  me 
as  that  which  has  survived  the  transitory  associa- 
tion of  our  friendship  and  that  which  shall  have 
no  end,  your  thought,  your  soul,  O  my  Law- 
rence! Not  your  brow,  which  must  bend  to  the 
destiny  of  mortals,  nor  your  young  body  ap- 
pointed for  the  worms,  You !  You !  that  in  you 
which  shall  never  die,  which  none  can  contest 
with  me,  none  can  take  from  me ! 

About  love. 

I  blush  when  I  think  how  many  I  have 
pleased  as  woman  —  only  for  this;  for  my  face, 

78 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

for  my  form — only  for  this;  I  have  been  loved 
for  my  eyes  and  not  for  my  thought — not  for  its 
depth  of  passion.  This  I  hold  an  insult  to  my 
better  part. 

How  different  my  mode  of  thinking  from 
that  of  Marie  Bashkirtseff!  She  says :  "  When  I 
suffer,  I  am  humiliated."  The  more  I  suffer,  the 
purer  and  loftier  I  feel  myself  becoming.  Is  this 
a  form  of  pride  superior  to  that  of  BashkirtsefF? 

She  says  again:  "We  should  not  be  seen 
very  much,  even  by  those  who  love  us.  We 
should  keep  to  the  middle  of  the  road  and  leave 
behind  us  regrets  and  illusions.  Thus  we  make 
a  better  figure  and  appear  more  beautiful."  Hor- 
rible! We  are,  then,  both  women,  and  yet  so 
different ! 

The  sight  of  passion  has  always  moved  me, 
like  the  view  of  lightning,  of  floods,  of  volcanoes, 
or  any  other  great  spectacle  of  nature.  Is  this 
not  also  a  great  spectacle  of  occult  forces,  of  that 
which  is  within  us  ?  Whenever  I  see  a  man  at 
my  feet,  I  admire  God  in  the  most  profound  of 
his  manifestations.  So  great  is  man  in  passion ! 
Then  truly  in  him  there  flashes  forth  the  majesty 
of  whirlwinds  and  of  tempests. 

Even  when  I  could  not  return  the  love,  I 
have  always  had  a  deep  feeling  of  respect,  a  sweet 
and  solemn  emotion  for  the  new  mystery.  It  is 
sad  not  to  be  loved,  but  it  is  sad,  too,  not  to  be 
able  to  love,  not  to  be  able  to  respond  to  an 

79 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

affection  we  inspire,  knowing  that  perhaps  it  may 
change  to  hate. 

Many  times  I  am  terrified  at  the  evil  that  we 
do  unwillingly,  unconsciously.  When  a  word 
offends  me,  I  cannot  free  myself  from  the  memory 
of  the  words  I  myself  have  spoken  that  may  have 
wounded  too.  It  seems  to  me  a  just  reparation 
of  pain,  and  I  seem  to  feel  myself  in  the  equi- 
librium of  nature.  The  fruits  piled  in  a  basket 
spoil  one  another,  and  one  cannot  say  which  is  the 
most  guilty  offender.  Is  it  not  so  ? 

There  reached  your  ear  the  voice  of  a  poet 
who  cursed  me  because  I  could  not  respond  to 
his  love.  But  why  do  we  love  one  another  ?  O 
great  and  melancholy  mystery  which  broods  over 
us,  inevitable  fatality  of  suffering  and  of  caus- 
ing suffering!  If  love  were  not  a  blind  boy,  he 
would  lead  to  us  the  souls  made  for  ours;  and  it 
is  not  so,  it  is  almost  never  so.  We  consume 
ourselves  in  expectations,  in  desires,  in  struggles, 
in  regrets,  and  love  passes  by  and  smiles. 

But  why  do  we  love  one  another?  again  I 
ask  you.  We  say  :  I  love  his  beauty,  his  talent, 
his  goodness ;  I  love  his  hair  because  it  is  black, 
his  voice  because  it  is  sweet.  But  this  is  not 
true,  not  a  word  of  all  this  is  true.  I  love  be- 
cause I  love.  This  is  love's  formula ;  there  is 
none  other. 

We  obey  blindly  a  prophetic  law ;  the  proof 
is  that  we  do  not  love  where  we  will,  and,  when 

80 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

amorous  revelation  strikes  us,  we  accuse  others 
and  do  not  realize  that  we  are  at  once  victims  and 
executioners,  faithful  and  unfaithful,  mysterious 
and  fatal  instruments  of  a  great  and  guiding 
Unknown. 

Rereading  the  ardent  verses  of  anger  written 
by  that  poet,  I  am  invaded  by  an  inexpressible 
melancholy.  What  would  I  not  give  to  reverse 
our  parts  !  Oh,  such  a  little  thing,  less  than  noth- 
ing, this  transference!  If  I  had  loved  him,  he  would 
not  love  me  now,  and  he  would  be  the  cruel  one. 

An  Idyl. 

Has  every  one  had  a  first  love  ?  For  amor- 
ous passion  this  must  be  like  the  spring  of  day. 
Positive  people  have  established  the  precise  hour 
of  sunrise;  but  before  the  sun  rises,  is  there 
not  something  in  the  heaven  that  proclaims  the 
day?  It  is  a  light,  pale  at  first,  then  rosy. 
Over  the  earth  there  is  a  thrill  of  rustling  leaves, 
of  opening  nests,  a  trepidation  of  wings  not  yet 
extended,  a  quiver  of  perfumes  not  yet  shaken 
from  the  bosoms  of  the  flowers, —  all  nature  in 
quiet,  mysterious,  almost  sacred  palpitation. 

When  I  was  beginning  to  forget  the  image  of 
the  prince  /  had  not  looked  at,  some  country  rela- 
tives of  my  aunt  who  had  been  visiting  her  took 
me  back  with  them.  Their  home  was  quite 
poor,  even  more  so  than  the  one  to  which  I  was 

81 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

accustomed,  and  they  were  vulgar  people  from 
association  with  whom  I  learned  that  to  change 
my  place  did  not  mean  a  change  of  my  fortunes. 
There,  too,  I  languished  in  the  midst  of  low 
ordered  discourse,  mean  ideas  and  wretched  hab- 
its, getting  no  good  from  the  fresh  air  and  the 
liberty  of  the  country,  rising  always  unwillingly 
in  the  morning  and  praying  all  day  for  the  time 
to  throw  myself  upon  my  bed,  as  a  haven  of 
peace  and  oblivion. 

There  was  in  that  house  a  rather  wild  and 
unfriendly  youth  of  whom  I  saw  scarcely  more 
than  an  occasional  gleam  of  big  eyes  from  the 
darkest  corner  of  the  room ;  I  never  heard  his 
voice ;  at  table  he  occupied  the  most  humble 
place  and  escaped  always  before  the  end  of  the 
meal. 

One  evening,  more  bored  than  usual,  I  tried 
to  get  to  bed  unseen,  mounting  in  the  dark  the 
little  stairway  that  led  from  the  two  miserable 
lower  rooms  to  the  two  upper,  but  when  I  reached 
the  landing  place  I  stopped.  I  had  perceived  a 
little  flame  from  the  fragment  of  a  candle  which 
the  boy  held  in  his  hand  while  he  was  squatted  on 
the  floor,  holding  on  his  knees  a  tattered  book  in 
which  he  was  too  engrossed  to  have  heard  my 
step. 

"  Good  night,"  I  said  at  last,  passing  by  him. 

He  leaped  to  his  feet,  extinguishing  the  can- 
dle-end and  making  ready  to  flee.  I  begged  him 

82 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

to  remain,  assuring  him  that  I  was  sorry  to  have 
disturbed  him  and  that  I  would  get  him  a  match 
to  relight  his  candle.  This  last  consideration 
seemed  to  decide  him.  He  did  not  reply,  but 
he  stayed  ;  I  felt  him  more  than  saw  him.  He 
was  breathing  heavily,  and  the  leaves  of  his 
book  rustled  in  his  hands. 

When  he  had  relit  the  tiny  flame  —  "  Good- 
ness! "  I  exclaimed,  "  and  how  do  you  come  to  be 
reading  ?  " 

He  blushed. 

Then  I  glanced  at  his  book. 

"  May  I  ask  what  book  that  is  ?  " 

I  felt  that  I  was  a  little  his  superior  and  I 
wished  to  encourage  him. 

At  last  he  unlocked  his  lips  and  said  that  it 
was  the  remnant  of  an  old  anthology.  I  bent 
over  his  hand  and  read  : 

"  Dagli  atri  muscoli,  dai  fort  cadenti." 

"  That  is  poetry." 

"  Yes,  the   poetry  of  Alessandro   Manzoni." 
"  I  think  I  know  it,  but  I  am  not  sure." 
He  turned  the  leaves  until  he  found  "/  Sep- 


"  This,"  he  said,  "  I  like  quite  well." 
"  Do  you  study  ?  " 

The  flush   on   his  cheeks  grew  deeper.     Fi- 
nally he  whispered  : 
"  I  must  work." 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

"  But  now  you  are  studying." 
He  did  not  answer  and  I  left  him. 
The  next  day  at  table  our  glances  met  with  a 
kind  of  curiosity.  His  eyes  were  very  beautiful. 
It  was  then  I  mentally  dubbed  him  Stella,  by 
which  name  I  always  remember  him.  That  eve- 
ning the  women  of  the  house  took  me  to  a  reli- 
gious function,  from  which  we  returned  rather 
late  and  we  went  to  bed  together.  But  in  the 
few  days  following,  going  to  bed  early,  I  would 
find  him  on  the  landing  and  he  no  longer  tried  to 
escape. 

One  evening  he  asked  me  eagerly : 
"  What  does  c  the  boundaries  of  Dis  '  mean?  " 
I  confessed  my  ignorance.     He  seemed  dis- 
appointed, and  added : 

"  I  don't  understand,  either."  Then  he  read 
slowly  from  his  fragmentary  anthology  : 

"  But  why  do  mortals,  ere  the  time  decreed, 
Diminish  those  illusions,  which,  once  spent, 
Will  leave  them  at  the  boundaries  of  Dis  ?  " 

We  were  both  mute  over  these  mysterious 
words.  I  was  the  first  to  break  silence  : 

"  This  is  the  poetry  which  pleases  you  so 
much  ? " 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  understand  it  all." 

I  was  not  surprised.  I,  too,  loved  certain 
things  which  I  did  not  understand.  Our  common 
ignorance  drew  us  nearer  together,  and,  more,  a 

84 


THE    SOUL    OF    AN    ARTIST 

certain  I  know  not  what  of  intimate  resem- 
blance between  us. 

I  asked  him  to  let  me  read  the  whole  poem. 
He  handed  me  the  book,  holding  the  candle-end 
before  me,  with  his  eyes  following  the  lines  as  I 
read,  which  I  did  neither  rapidly  nor  easily,  but 
from  which  there  came  to  me  such  an  ecstasy  of 
pleasure  that  it  was  like  a  revelation. 

Several  phrases  particularly  struck  me : 

"     *        *       *        Celestial  interchange 
Of  amorous  sentiments." 

And  this,  too : 

"To  shelter  me  beneath  the  mighty  wings 
Of  God's  forgiveness." 

There  were  head  notes,  by  which  we  man- 
aged to  understand  the  allusions  to  Parini  and 
others ;  however,  my  friend  was  troubled  over 
those  first  three  incomprehensible  lines,  and  I 
was  distressed  not  to  be  able  to  aid  him. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  candle-end  was  smokily 
dying  out.  I  was  remorseful  for  that  portion  of  it 
which  I  had  consumed,  and  running  into  my 
room  I  took  the  half-candle  from  my  candle- 
stick and  carried  it  to  him,  saying  that  I  could  do 
without  it,  as  the  moon  was  shining  brightly  into 
my  room. 

Stello  was  not  overgracious ;  he  hesitated  a 
moment,  gave  me  a  glance  from  his  wild-like 
eyes,  and  said  simply,  "Thank  you."  I  thought 

85 


THE  SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

it  very  pleasant  that  evening  to  go  to  bed  by 
moonlight. 

Was  it  intended  as  a  reward  for  that  little 
service?  I  believe  so.  On  the  subsequent 
evenings,  when  I  greeted  him  on  the  landing,  he 
always  offered  me  a  bunch  of  flowers.  These 
bouquets  deserve  a  description  :  very,  very  small, 
made  up  of  common  flowers,  tied  tightly  by  a 
piece  of  string,  gathered,  who  knows  when,  and 
often  withered,  they  were  an  evidence  of  the 
ingenuous  rawness  of  the  boy ;  from  them  was 
exhaled  a  sharp  perfume,  like  the  odor  of  his 
person,  —  a  perfume  not  delicate,  nor  refreshing, 
but  penetrated  by  an  acid  aroma  which  had  a 
particular  charm.  I  was  aware  that  this  perfume 
came  from  a  little  leaf  slightly  notched,  of  a 
modest  green,  a  green  almost  dust  powdered,  a 
shade  common  to  flowers  grown  in  arid  soil.  I 
asked  him  the  name  of  this  plant,  and  he  replied 
that  it  was  an  African  geranium,  his  geranium, 
which  he  had  planted  with  his  own  hand  in  the 
little  garden  of  the  house. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  it?"  he  asked 
brusquely.  And  without  waiting  an  answer,  he 
slipped  down  the  stairway,  making  me  a  sign  to 
follow. 

A  few  minutes  after  we  were  in  the  tiny  gar- 
den, without  having  made  more  noise  than  two 
little  squirrels  in  a  tree.  The  moon  was  at  full, 
and  in  her  clear  light  he  showed  me  the  little 

86 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

plant.  I  said  it  was  very  puny  and  that  pluck- 
ing its  leaves  every  day  would  utterly  ruin  it. 

"  What  does  that  matter  ?  "  he  replied,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders.  "  I  must  give  it  up." 

"Give  it  up?     And  why?" 

"  I  am  going  away." 

"When?" 

"  Next  month.  They  have  found  me  a  place 
as " 

He  pronounced  the  word  in  so  low  a  voice 
that  I  could  not  hear.  His  embarrassment  dis- 
turbed me  very  much.  I  felt  a  peculiar  tender- 
ness for  the  strange  boy  condemned  like  me  to 
an  uncongenial  life.  I  was  seeking  some  consol- 
atory phrase,  when  he  began  again  : 

"  However,  I  will  not  stay  there  always  ;  I  wish 
to  be  a  printer.  In  a  publishing  house  work  will 
not  be  so  unpleasant,  and  then  I  shall  read  and 
then  " 

He  lifted  his  eyes  to  heaven,  without  com- 
pleting his  thought,  and  my  emotion  was  too 
deep  to  pass  unnoticed  by  him. 

Neither  of  us  moved. 

The  evening  was  delicious,  the  garden  bathed 
in  light,  and  all  around  such  intense  quiet  and 
peace,  the  stars  above  our  heads  and  so  many 
thoughts  within  us. 

From  that  evening  the  landing  was  some- 
what neglected.  We  often  found  ourselves  by 
tacit  accord  in  the  garden  so  sweetly  illumined 

8? 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

by  the  moon;  our  talks  were  not  long,  but  it 
pleased  us  to  be  together  in  silence.  Often  our 
glances  crossed ;  always  he  gave  me  a  leaf  of  his 
geranium,  and  I  showed  him  the  old  ones  I  had 
preserved.  I  showed  them  to  him  because  then 
he  smiled  and  I  liked  to  see  him  smile,  for  at  that 
moment  he  seemed  happy. 

When  the  day  was  fixed  for  my  return  to  the 
city,  I  was  really  grieved.  He  seemed  greatly 
agitated.  He  did  not  say  that  he  loved  me,  but 
I  knew  it  well. 

I  need  not  say  how  sad  was  our  last  even- 
ing. We  spoke  even  less  than  usual,  but  every 
little  while  we  said  "  Good-by,"  without  a  glance. 
At  each  little  bush  he  stopped  and  plucked  me  a 
flower  which  he  put  into  my  apron  ;  when  all  the 
flowers  were  gone,  he  reaped  the  odorous  herbs, 
some  thyme,  mignonette,  and  a  little  marjoram. 
All  his  geranium  was  gone,  though  I  had  op- 
posed this  devastation.  But  he  had  said  reso- 
lutely : 

"  No,  no,  let  it  die.     It  is  better  so." 

Finally  we  parted,  hardly  keeping  back  our 
tears;  my  apron  was  full  of  flowers,  and  in  my 
hand  I  had  pressed  a  little  leaf  of  his  geranium. 

Once  in  my  chamber,  I  could  not  sleep ;  my 
bed  repelled  me.  I  did  not  have  a  room  of  my 
own  and  the  good  woman  who  yielded  me  half 
hers  was  already  in  bed  and  insisted  that  I,  too, 
should  lie  down.  I  made  my  little  packing  an 

88 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

excuse  for  some  delay,  for  truly  my  sorrow  was 
choking  me.  Then,  when  I  thought  my  room- 
mate was  asleep,  I  opened  the  window,  and  like 
a  dear  consoling  friend  the  pure  moonlight  en- 
folded me,  and  my  tears  had  their  way. 

After  a  little,  drying  my  eyes  and  looking 
down  into  the  small  garden  below  the  window, 
I  thought  I  saw  a  dark  figure  prone  upon 
the  ground.  My  heart  began  a  disordered  beat, 
and  instinctively  and  mutely  I  held  out  my 
arms. 

Leaping  to  its  feet,  the  figure  came  towards 
me.  Prayers,  salutations,  impossible  desires, 
what  all  were  not  in  that  dumb  adoration  ?  I 
know  not,  but  my  heart  beat  still  more  violently. 
To  speak  was  impossible.  I  had  already  heard 
my  companion  turn  and  re-turn  in  her  bed,  and 
I  feared  she  might  awaken. 

I  had  to  close  the  window,  but  first  I  took 
a  handful  of  the  flowers  which  he  had  gathered 
for  me  and  I  began  to  rain  them  down  upon  his 
head. 

Scatteringly  there  fell  upon  the  night  air 
petals  of  gelsemine,  rose  leaves,  twigs  of  thyme 
and  of  marjoram,  there  fell  some  leaves  of  the 
African  geranium,  filling  the  moist  atmosphere 
with  their  sharp  odor,  and  Stello,  his  arms  up- 
lifted, was  flooded  with  the  fragrant  shower. 

This  was  our  last  greeting. 


89 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

Renunciation. 

And  when  does  one  really  love  ?  Many 
times,  in  the  evenings  of  my  greatest  triumphs, 
before  a  theatre  crowded  with  people  hanging  on 
my  words,  whose  pulses  quicken  with  mine  and 
for  me,  in  that  marvelous  thrill  which  runs  from 
stage  to  audience,  when  enthusiasm  beats  its 
wings,  I  long  with  a  wild  desire  for  one  among  so 
many.  One  only.  And  it  was  for  him,  for  the 
unknown  brother,  that  passion  warmed  my  glance 
and  stirred  my  voice.  Where  was  he  ?  Did  he 
exist  ?  Have  I  not  been  too  often  deceived  ? 
Have  we  not  been  reciprocally  deceived,  and 
subject  all  to  that  natural  disillusion,  the  ever- 
lasting disillusion  of  love  ? 

The  hearts  of  the  young  are  like  trees 
flowering  over  the  high  road :  upon  the  first 
passer-by  the  petals  fall  and  the  perfume.  How 
gather  them  up  again  ?  And  whom  accuse  of 
the  profusion  ? 

When  the  spring  winds  blow,  the  hardly 
opened  flowers  fall,  fall  upon  a  dunghill,  fall 
upon  the  brow  of  a  poet.  What  merit  or  what 
blame  in  this  ?  Who  knows  aught  of  this  blow- 
ing wind  ? 

Love  is  sad. 

Sad  above  all  is  taking  love  up  again.  To 
repeat  unbelievingly  the  same  words  which  were 
once  pronounced  with  the  smile  of  illusion,  to 
invite  with  eyes  which  have  wept,  to  kiss  with 

90 


THE    SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

the  mouth  which  has  imprecated,  to  swear  where 
faith  is  dead ;  to  be  happy  and  to  know  that  this 
will  pass,  to  desire  and  to  know  that  the  end  of 
desire  is  nausea  or  indifference 

You,  perchance,  cannot  comprehend,  O  happy 
youth,  this  horrible  thing,  the  weariness  of  love! 
We  are  in  a  green  field  panting  with  life,  or  else 
in  a  chamber  steeped  in  mystery;  our  hearts  we 
feel  beating  in  unison  with  the  virgin  energies  of 
nature,  or  with  the  refined  forces  of  a  salon  ;  one 
or  the  other  enraptures,  inebriates  us.  We  love 
for  the  first  time. 

But  let  the  scene  be  again  either  the  green 
champaign  with  its  flowers,  its  perfumes,  its 
susurrus,  its  silence,  its  seduction,  or  the  little 
room  with  its  softness,  its  complex  penumbras, 
its  suggestive  arts  of  luxury, — it  is  the  second 
time !  And  then  once  more,  once  more 

The  verdure,  which  is  always  the  same,  repeats 
to  us  that  we  are  not;  for  we  know  that  it  is  not 
the  verdure  of  that  time  and  that  the  flowers 
wither  and  the  perfumes  are  dissipated  and  that 
the  traces  of  tears  and  kisses  in  the  trembling 
grasses  are  destroyed  by  new  grasses,  new  nests ; 
and  from  the  silken  pillows  all  memories  are 
removed  by  the  feathers  used  to  take  away  the 
dust,  and,  in  our  hearts,  our  bleeding  and  mourn- 
ful hearts,  the  science  of  life  has  written:  Finis. 

All  this  is  of  a  sweetness  and  sadness  com- 
parable in  my  mind  only  with  the  song  of  a  child 

91 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

at  a  bier,  which  is  the  sweetest  and  saddest  thing 
I  know. 

I  mentioned  Desclee,  but  I  have  another 
spiritual  sister  in  my  art,  that  Adrienne  Lecou- 
vreur,  whose  extraordinary  sensibility  was  perhaps 
her  greatest  charm.  She  had  that  deep  and 
thoughtful  pathos  which  is  so  powerful  in  the  in- 
terpretation of  passion, —  a  pathos  rare  and  unique 
which  springs  in  certain  privileged  souls  without 
any  exploiting  and  in  absolutely  contrary  en- 
vironments, as  must  have  been  for  Adrienne 
the  corrupt,  frivolous  and  voluptuous  theatri- 
cal world  of  the  seventeenth  century.  She  was 
a  shining  proof  of  the  theory  that  there  are 
elect  persons  who  may  touch  pitch  and  be  un- 
defiled. 

There  is  a  sentiment  of  Adrienne  Lecou- 
vreur's  which  seems  to  me  very  striking.  It  is 
that  directed  to  a  young  man  who  asked  her 
love :  "  Let  us  be  friends,  but  for  love  choose  a 
virgin  heart.  The  happy  creature  should  not  yet 
have  lost  the  blissful  illusions  which  make  every- 
thing attractive,  should  not  yet  have  been  deceived 
or  deserted ;  should  believe  you  and  all  other 
men  to  be  good." 

And  such  is  love.  Faith  and  hope,  as  in  the 
ingenuous  simulacra  of  our  grandfathers,  always 
accompany  love.  The  heart,  the  cross  and  the 
anchor,  carved  in  cornelian,  was,  fifty  years  ago, 
you  know  a  kind  of  amulet.  They  were  worn 

92 


THE    SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

about  the  neck,  attached  to  a  cord,  and  woe,  if 
one  were  lost! 

Love  will  perhaps  disappear  from  the  world. 
It  is  a  good  sentiment  for  simple  creatures,  two 
children  who  go  hand  in  hand  and  are  credulous. 
One  day  this  will  be  no  longer  possible,  I  say  to 
myself.  Admiration,  sympathy,  desires,  ecstasies 
which  come  to  thee,  fascinations  that  stimulate, 
ideals  that  inspire,  take  them  all  with  the  convic- 
tion that  they  will  resolve  themselves  into  noth- 
ing. Keep  not  one  small  particle  of  these  tributes, 
render  them  all  back  to  their  divine  source.  In 
them  there  is  something  really  good,  really  pure, 
but  it  is  not  for  thee.  It  is  a  loan ;  it  is  the 
circulating  coin  of  the  world  to  be  given  back 
to  it. 

And  again  I  say  to  myself: 

Do  not  condense  thy  dream,  nor  seek  to 
make  of  it  a  reality.  Thou  shalt  see  in  the 
heavenly  vault  forms  of  flowers  strange  and 
mighty,  angels,  flames,  symbolic  words,  but  do 
not  try  to  arrest  them,  for  they  would  dissolve  in 
cloud. 

I  was  obliged  to  stop ;  the  evening  had 
already  set  in.  I  took  a  seat  at  the  window,  and 
little  by  little  a  superhuman  sweetness  swelled  at 
my  heart,  as  if  an  invisible  hand  had  pressed  it 
and  brought  forth  tears  of  relief.  I  wept  in  the 
coolness  of  the  night,  feeling  all  my  sorrows 

93 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

present  in  the  shadow,  and  yet,  too,  a  comfort,  a 
hope,  a  dawn  of  peace. 

I  wrote  almost  in  the  dark: 

There  flower  upon  my  lips 

Kisses  for  thee, 

For  thine  Olympian  brow, 

For  thine  eyes  divine, 

For  thee. 

But  this  shall  never  be, 

Nor  now,  nor  in  all  time, 

Shall  ever  be. 

Knowest  thou  the  joy, 

The  melancholy  joy 

Of  No? 

An  offering  sweet  I  make 

Of  my  inmost  desires  ; 

And  these  I  bind 

Like  fragrant  roses  dead, 

Like  sacred  candles  spent, 

And  rise, 

Thus  dearly  freighted, 

Serenely  rise 

To  thee. 

Do  you  not  hear  in  these  words  a  mute 
ardor?  And  a  plaint  from  afar,  which  shall  never, 
never  end  ? 

How  can  I  say  everything?  I  did  so  desire 
to,  but  it  cannot  be.  Oh !  if  you  would  divine 
me!  Behold  me!  Are  these  groans,  these 
struggles,  these  cries,  these  lamentations  not 
enough?  Music  might  express  more.  You 

94 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN   ARTIST 

understand  that.  Why  not  understand  me  ?  I 
know — this  is  the  reason:  you  have  never  suf- 
ered,  nor  wept,  and  though  your  talents  will 
carry  you  far,  you  will  always  fall,  always  stop 
before  the  sphinx  which  is  named  Sorrow,  and 
yours  will  never  be  the  melancholy,  boundless, 
lamentable,  made  of  wounds  and  tears,  the  state 
of  him  who  knows. 

One  day  you  had  the  cruel  courage  to  say  to 
me  that  I  could  not  love.  Lawrence!  when  the 
earth  enters  her  shadow  you  know  well  that  she 
has  drunk  in  all  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  is  warm 
with  them.  You  say  the  pure,  the  cold,  the 
chaste  night,  but  you  are  ignorant  of  the  fervor 
she  conceals,  and  that  her  coldness  is  modesty, 
and  her  chastity  is  a  veil  of  tears. 

A  terrible  fatality  weighs  upon  lofty  and  sen- 
sitive hearts.  They  love  and  are  deceived.  You 
see,  I  endeavor  to  be  scrupulously  just.  I  cer- 
tainly shall  not  repeat  the  vulgar  truisms  that 
many  have  thought  to  discover,  accusing  now 
men,  now  women,  nor  even  the  patent  phrases: 
"men  egoistic,  proud,  sensual" — "women  vain, 
frivolous,  capricious."  Every  one  pronouncing 
one  of  these  phrases  gives  vent  to  his  own  pain 
and  shows  his  own  limitations  and  egotistic  ex- 
perience. 

How  can  it  be  said  :  It  is  the  man  that  causes 
suffering  or  it  is  the  woman,  for  we  are  each  a 
planet,  and  for  one  turn  which  we  make  around 

95 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN   ARTIST 

others  how  many  revolutions  have  we  completed 
around  ourselves  ! 

If  we  must  accuse  some  one  for  our  disen- 
chantments,  let  it  be  ourselves,  for  it  is  we  our- 
selves who  fabricate  our  loves,  painting  with  the 
colors  of  our  fantasy.  When  our  hearts  are 
young  and  ardent  they  are  like  prisms,  and  lend 
their  tints  to  the  objects  that  most  nearly  ap- 
proach them.  The  ideal  is  within  us,  and  we  try 
with  all  our  powers  to  extract  it  from  some  other 
person.  Love  is  the  great  soul  of  the  universe, 
which  is  eternal  in  the  hymn  of  life,  and  we  wish 
to  fix  it  in  two  eyes  which  a  cataract  may  dim 
today  or  tomorrow  and  which  death  will  certainly 
close  forever. 

Do  souls  meet  in  life,  in  time,  in  possibility, 
in  election  ?  Really  no  ? 

Given  two  equal  souls,  with  difficulty  shall 
they  mutually  reveal  themselves  —  interpenetrate 
each  other,  hardly.  If  there  is  the  time,  the  cause 
will  be  lacking;  if  the  cause  is  at  hand,  absence 
will  supervene;  and  when  time, cause  and  presence 
are  consenting,  does  there  not  always  exist  the 
past  of  which  one  shadow  is  enough  to  obscure 
whatever  joy?  A  slight  indisposition  of  the 
spirit  is  enough  for  this.  We  have  sublime 
impulses,  but  no  one  sees  these  at  their  moment, 
and,  called  back,  their  worth  is  gone.  We  would 
often  be  heroic,  godlike,  impassioned,  if  a  thou- 
sand little  invisible  influences  did  not  work  upon 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

our  timidity  or  there  were  not  awakened  that 
vague  terror  of  action  which  so  easily  besets  him 
who  is  used  to  a  life  of  meditation. 

Last  night  there  was  a  marvelous  moon,  mov- 
ing so  lightly  in  the  midst  of  clouds,  lower  than 
they  and  so  luminously  withdrawn  from  the  firm- 
ament that  she  seemed  to  be  making  with  rapid 
progress  towards  the  earth.  A  god  bearing  a 
message  of  inconceivable  grandeur  might  look 
like  this.  What  noble  things  you  would  have 
had  to  say  to  me  !  But  could  I  have  spoken  to 
you  ? 

All  the  difference  between  life  and  dream  lies 
in  this : 

In  dreams  all  the  outer  circumstances  are  in 
harmony  with  the  inner,  while  in  life  there  is 
always  something  wanting — something  which  is, 
which  exists,  but  which  arrives  either  too  soon  or 
too  late. 

Then  why  be  so  obstinate  in  loving  ?  Why, 
once  enlightened,  renew  the  deceit  ?  It  is  good  for 
simple  hearts,  as  I  have  already  said.  Wounded 
and  impassioned  hearts  should  be  lifted  up  to 
where  love  changes  its  nature.  In  the  highest 
atmospheric  regions  the  rarefaction  of  the  air 
prevents  the  development  of  organic  life,  but 
the  light  of  the  sun  is  more  ardent  and  purer 
there. 

Fidelity,  the  elevated  form  of  terrestrial  love, 
is  an  insensibility  to  the  great  love,  whose 

97 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

principal  aspiration  is  evolution  to  an  ever  more 
perfect  type. 

The  symbol  of  a  dog  in  his  kennel  fits  itself 
to  the  love  and  fidelity  of  men,  because  these 
sentiments  have  in  them  part  instinct,  part  habit, 
part  bestiality.  I,  for  the  symbol  of  my  love, 
would  have  a  star  and  this  motto  :  "  De  claritate 
in  claritatem" 

He  was  near  to  thee  and  spoke  to  thee. 

In  the  gardens  of  Milan  (after  Rome  that  is 
the  city  where  we  lived  most  together,  and,  after 
the  Villa  Borghese,  the  gardens  of  Milan  are  the 
dearest  in  the  world  to  me)  we  stopped  once 
—  melancholy  word  !  — before  the  tiny  village  of 
birds.  Two  splendid  specimens  of  I  know  not 
what  rare  species  were  lodged  apart  in  a  building 
something  between  court  and  garden,  like  old 
aristocratic  palaces,  and  their  sections  were  divided 
by  the  very  closest  lattice  work.  Leaning  upon 
the  iron  bar,  we  silently  looked  at  the  birds  for  a 
while.  (How  ideally  transparent  was,  that  day, 
your  Anglo-Saxon  complexion  under  the  Italian 
sky!) 

Every  one  around  us  was  chattering:  the 
nurses  with  their  charges,  the  little  girls  with  their 
dolls,  meeting  friends,  an  old  man  who  found 
himself  seated  by  another  old  man;  but  we,  no. 

Meanwhile,  the  two  noble  fowls,  separated  by 
their  light  barrier,  felt  each  other's  presence,  and 

98 


THE    SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

sought  one  another.  From  both  sides  there  were 
bold  assaults,  pauses  full  of  expectation,  impos- 
sible attempts  at  flight,  attitudes  of  defiance, 
sweet  and  disdainful  lamentations,  and  beatings 
of  the  beak  against  the  barrier ;  a  whole  war,  a 
drama,  a  poem.  Animated  by  the  same  fury, 
the  one  did  not  see  the  forces  of  the  other,  and 
perhaps  undervalued  these.  The  one  ran  the 
length  of  the  lattice,  attracted  by  the  voice  and 
movements  of  his  fellow,  the  warmth  of  whose 
breath  he  could  feel  without  being  able  to  see  or 
to  touch  him,  and  then  retreated  as  if  beaten; 
but  the  other  found  the  same  obstacle,  and  re- 
peated the  same  movements,  the  cries,  the  beak- 
ings,  the  laments,  the  dolorous  calls,  insistent 
almost  to  spasms,  he,  too,  to  recede  defeated  and 
discouraged.  They  were  neighbors,  they  heard 
each  other,  felt  each  other,  and  could  not  love 
each  other. 

Why  did  I  not  then  speak  ?  The  heaven  above 
us  was  so  sweet,  and  mild  the  air  and  the  hour. 
I  tremblingly  listened  to  the  life  passing  by  me, 
and  from  the  depths  of  my  heart  there  arose  an 
old  song  which  I  love  : 

"There  where  the  restless  waves  sigh,  night  and  day; 
There  where  the  lark  sings,  thou  hast  not  met  love. 
He  was  near  thee  and  spoke  to  thee." 

For  a  moment  I  was  tempted  to  repeat  this 
aloud;  but  always  when  I  am  deeply  moved,  a 

99 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

kind  of  timidity  or  modesty,  I  know  not  which, 
urges  me  to  assume  a  demeanor  at  variance  with 
my  feeling  lest  the  sentiment  should  be  entirely 
lost.  I  said : 

"  What  beautiful  plane-trees  ! " 

"  Those  are  not  plane-trees,"  you  replied. 

"  I  think  they  are." 

"  They  are  not." 

"  Then  what  are  they  ?  " 

My  heart  kept  repeating  "  restless  waves," 
and  my  lips  questioned  for  themselves. 

"  I  do  not  remember ;  I  will  tell  you  later." 

"  But  they  have  the  palmate  leaf  of  the 
plane." 

( The  eye  can  look,  too,  without  heeding  the 
heart.) 

But  the  music  (  our  brief  chat  was  like  rapid 
archery )  did  not  cover  the  words  murmured  in 
our  inmost  being,  the  words  we  did  not  speak. 

Soon  you  raised  your  voice  to  tell  me  of  a 
dispute  you  had  had  with  a  friend  at  a  restau- 
rant ;  your  eyes  sparkled  with  boyish  gaiety ; 
your  voice  had  the  high  and  slightly  emotional 
quality  of  one  who  recites  a  part ;  however,  you 
did  not  proceed.  The  glorious  beauty  of  the 
hour  took  us  both ;  the  joy  of  living  penetrated 
through  eye  and  heart. 

I  saw  you,  you,  in  that  inexpressibly  pure  air, 
in  the  light,  slightly  veiled,  like  a  proud  ardor 
enshrouding  itself  in  the  general  mildness  of 

100 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

tints  and  breezes,  which  was  almost  enough  to 
make  one  believe  in  a  suspension  of  terrestrial 
misery,  in  a  happy  instant  of  pardon. 

An  imperceptible,  almost  involuntary  move- 
ment drew  the  hem  of  my  skirt  across  your  feet. 

"What  an  enchanting  day!"  I  murmured, 
very  softly,  not  to  trouble  the  sweet  tumult 
within  me. 

You  assented  silently  with  a  smile.  And 
meanwhile  the  hour  was  passing.  A  slight  cool- 
ness in  the  air  was  the  first  warning.  From  the 
summits  of  the  trees  the  sun  was  withdrawing 
little  by  little,  trailing  its  glory  along  the  sand  of 
the  paths,  granting  to  the  very  last  its  gracious 
warmth  to  the  little  nests,  to  the  holes  deep  in 
the  grass  where,  through  shining  threads,  the 
cicadas  were  taking  a  few  last  leaps,  and  the  mys- 
terious dragon-flies  were  disappearing  with  the 
graceful  flight  of  their  gauzy  wings.  An  ever 
sweeter  and  gentler  whisper  thrilled  the  leaves  of 
the  tall  trees.  I  lifted  my  eyes,  thinking,  "When 
the  lark  sings."  But  the  larks  and  the  swallows 
were  descending  in  large  circles,  silently  skimming 
the  tops  of  the  magnolias  in  whose  shade  we  had 
seated  ourselves, —  sweet,  shining  green  of  the 
magnolias,  a  little  cold  (like  us?)  and  aristocratic, 
a  green,  which  defies  the  frost ! 

My  fan  fell  to  the  ground,  you  picked  it  up, 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  I  looked  at  you  with  a 
great  and  unexpressed  sweetness,  delaying  some- 

101 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

what  to  take  it  from  your  hand,  while  you  your- 
self hesitated  to  yield  it  to  me. 

In  that  moment  of  divided  sensation  I 
relived  in  the  beating  of  our  hearts  all  the  en- 
chantment of  the  vanished  hour,  and  it  abides 
with  me  yet,  combined  with  the  fragrance  of  the 
magnolias,  with  the  green,  with  the  dying  sun, 
with  the  warmth  of  your  arm  against  which  I  had 
leaned,  with  your  hand  which  had  lightly  touched 
mine,  with  the  desire  which  had  enwrapped  us, 
so  subtle  and  so  secret, —  not  entirely  were  we 
masters  of  ourselves,  nor  yet  slaves. 

The  invisible  dominated  us,  surged  from  our 
souls  to  our  lips  which  closed  in  jealous  custody, 
pressed  against  our  hearts  which  suspended,  almost 
to  finality,  their  pulses. 

I  shut  my  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  was  glad 
to  be  aware  that  even  from  the  lowered  lids  I 
saw  the  sky,  the  trees,  and  you.  I  saw  you  bet- 
ter without  the  distraction  of  secondary  objects, 
as  in  an  ever  purer  spiritual  selection,  and  in  this 
sweet  oblivion  my  unhappy  past  seemed  annihi- 
lated. "This  is  happiness!"  I  thought. 

To  breathe  beside  a  sister  soul  without  merg- 
ing oneself,  with  full  self-consciousness,  to  love 
with  something  yet  incomplete,  uncomprehended, 
is  not  this,  perhaps,  the  greater  charm,  the  sole 
one, —  expectation  ? 

I  had  not  yet  thanked  you  for  having  lifted 
my  fan,  and  it  was  now  too  late  to  do  so.  I'oo 

IO2 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

late!   I  repeated  to  myself.    I  drew  my  black  boa 
closer,  controlling  a  shiver,  and  rose  to  my  feet. 

You  looked  at  me  doubtfully,  with  a  dull 
flame  in  your  eyes.  You  remember? 

The  white  book. 

You  saw  it  once  on  my  writing-desk,  the 
little  white  book.  It  was  you  who  so  named  it, 
giving  a  certain  importance  and  recondite  sweet- 
ness to  those  poor  pages,  which  I  would  never 
let  you  read. 

Many  women  keep  a  journal,  not  I.  The 
book  of  my  life  would  have  so  many  ugly  records 
that  I  am  happy  never  to  have  written  it.  I  must 
tell  you,  too,  that  I  do  not  like  to  write;  I  am 
astonished  to  be  doing  so  now  to  you,  yielding 
to  an  irresistible  impulse. 

It  must  have  been  an  irresistible  power  which 
made  me  set  forth  so  many  thoughts  upon  these 
pages, —  thoughts  given  in  so  unusual  a  form  as 
sometimes  to  be  like  verse,  and  in  which  I  find 
something  better  than  my  life,  the  synthesis,  the 
very  result  of  my  life.  Yes,  it  is  indeed  my  life 
which  I  have  written  in  the  little  white  book. 
Look  so  to  understand  it;  of  what  import  the 
facts  ? 

Now  I  love  nature.  It  is  almost  my  only 
consolation.  Everything  has  voice,  every  form 
an  expression,  every  change  a  signification.  The 
white  book  knows  it.  I  have  made  moan  with 

103 


THE   SOUL    OF  AN  ARTIST 

the  trees  and  with  the  fountains ;  we  have  told 
each  other  many  things  in  a  language  I  once  did 
not  understand. 

I  made  no  search  for  the  words  written  here. 
They  came  to  me  already  formed,  as  if  suggested 
by  an  invisible  mouth ;  they  came  instead  of  tears, 
instead  of  groans  and  sighs ;  they  came  in  unac- 
customed throng,  I  know  not  why.  I  know 
nothing  of  what  I  say  except  that  it  is  what  I 
feel. 

In  the  greater  part  of  mankind  admiration  of 
nature  has  been  cultivated,  like  the  need  of  dress- 
ing, like  the  habit  of  reading,  or  of  making  music. 
It  is  my  pride  to  have  discovered  nature  by  the 
mere  force  of  my  love. 

I  did  so  detest  it  when  they  wished  to  impose 
it  upon  me  after  their  manner  that  now  I  have  a 
special  right  to  love  it  for  my  own,  with  a  passion 
mute  and  profound,  with  a  jealousy,  too,  for  this 
love  will  admit  no  companionship.  To  be  alone 
in  the  wood  is  for  me  the  highest  esthetic  sensa- 
tion. 

It  is  not  the  verdure,  nor  the  freshness,  nor 
the  shade,  nor  the  whispers,  nor  the  perfume,  nor 
the  gay  sensuousness  of  the  velvety  sward  that 
attracts  me;  it  is  rather  the  meaning  of  all  this, 
that  obscure  meaning  through  which  the  heart  of 
man  has  relationship  with  the  blade  of  grass,  with 
the  flower,  with  the  brook,  with  the  insect,  and 
even  with  the  ultrasensible  space,  with  the  grand, 

104 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

the  mysterious,  the  marvelous,  the  unknown. 
This  is  what  I  wished  to  write  in  the  white  book. 
Listen : 

The  Lament  of  the  Little  Waterfall. 

I  was  a  tiny  thread,  a  slender  stream 

From  high  rocks  tumbling  down. 
Silent  I  fell,  disturbing  none  who  passed, 

And  none  took  note  of  me. 
One  day  a  stranger  saw  me,  and  had  thirst, 

Had  burning  thirst  of  me. 
Graceful  he  bent,  took  me  within  his  hand, 

And  pressed  me  to  his  lips. 
And  then  he  went  his  way  and  I  went  mine, — 

But  from  that  day  I  weep. 

The  Storm  of  Leaves. 

We  are  errant  voices, 
We  are  sighs  and  kisses, 
We  are  groans  and  dirges. 
On  we  fly,  we  whirl 
In  the  air,  the  sun, 
Over  mount  and  plain. 
We  are  illusion, 
We  are  hope, 
We  are  passion. 

The  Secret  of  a  Stone. 
I  am  inflexible, 
Hard,  severe, 
Show  no  pulse, 
Voice  have  I  none  ; 
But  the  new  Hamlet 
Of  the  valley, 
I  have  a  secret 
I'll  not  tell. 

105 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

What  I  have  seen, 
What  thought, 
The  wood  knows, 
And  the  sky  knows,  too. 
But  why,  cold,  I  fell 
Upon  the  river-bed, — 
That  is  my  secret, 
I'll  not  tell. 

The  Voice  of  the  Madonna  in  the  Little  Chapel  in  the  Wood. 

Thy  brow  is  pure, 
Thine  eye  serene, 
Thy  mantle  azure 
With  stars  of  gold. 
But  seven  swords 
Have  pierced  thy  breast, 
Mother  of  God 
And  of  Sorrow. 

What  the  Mountain  Heights  Think. 

We  are  immovable,  stony.  No  passion 
troubles  us.  The  winds  and  tempests  pass  over 
us  and  leave  us  intact.  The  rain  storms  down, 
the  snow  falls,  and  we  rise  ever  pure  and  erect  to 
meet  the  sun.  We  see  everything,  and  nothing 
touches  us.  (So  think  the  mountain  heights, 
and  they  reign.) 

The  Song  of  the  Cicada. 

Joy,  joy,  joy  is  mine  ! 
Love  seeks  not  me. 
Joy,  joy,  joy  is  mine  ! 
From  thought  I'm  free. 

106 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

Joy,  joy,  joy  is  mine  ! 
I  challenge  sorrow. 
Joy,  joy,  joy  is  mine  ! 
I  know  no  morrow. 

Dialogue  of  the  Roses  and  the  Thorns. 

-  We  are  beauty, 

—  And  we  are  power. 
—  We  are  sweetness, 

—  And  we  are  constancy. 

—  We  are  love, 

—  And  we  are  sorrow. 

—  We  are  poetry, 

—  And  we  are  wisdom. 

—  We  bind  the  brows  of  the  happy, 

—  And  we  the  temples  of  heroes. 

The  Trees. 

How  often  when  I  rest  beneath  the  trees, 
Those  sheltering  trees  whose  verdant  shades  I  love, 
I  question  of  the  tremulous  leaves  :     You  know  ? 
You  know  both  when  I  speak  and  when  I  laugh, 
And  when  I'm  sadly  mute,  you  know  me,  too? 

Yes,  yes,  they  understand  me,  they  alone  ; 
Into  their  secret  depths  I  searching  look 
And  find  serenity's  infinitude. 
Sorrow  they  understand,  and  when  a  heart 
Is  wounded  unto  death,  they  understand. 

They  listen,  too,  they  listen,  grave  and  sweet, 
As  those  who  all  things  and  for  ever  know, 
All  the  great  mysteries  of  the  human  soul. 
And  tenderly  as  mothers  to  their  babes 
They  with  their  soft  caresses  heal  my  pain. 

107 


THE   SOUL   OF  AN   ARTIST 

0  verdant  fronds  and  branches  !     O  delight 
Of  streaming  odors  !  and  above  all  dear 
Unto  this  weary  heart,  your  shadows  pure  — 
To  you  I  yield  myself,  oblivious  quite,  — 
Sweet  is  oblivion  within  your  arms  ! 

1  feel  you  are  my  brothers,  living  trees  ! 
Trees  linked  with  man  in  common  destiny! 
For  you  are  sentient  creatures,  stirred  by  mood, 
Not  solid  granite  force  immovable, 

But  born  like  me  and  like  me  mortal,  too. 

Like  me  you're  born  to  gentle  aims,  and  good, 
Your  slender  arms  uplifted  to  the  sky ; 
You're  ever  warred  upon  by  wind  and  man, 
Your  young  leaves'  graces  ever  stripped  away 
And  ever  budding  new  —  like  me  again. 

Kisses  you  have,  and  shudders,  for  you  feel  ! 

And  in  the  cosmic  struggle,  in  the  grey 

And  desolate  sunsets  and  the  gloomy  dawns 

Of  pale  Octobers,  when  the  heavens  weep, 

Your  drooping  branches  have  their  weight  of  tears. 

And  when  the  awful  sea  in  quiet  sleeps 
Upon  its  heap  of  corpses  new  engulfed, 
Impassive  witnesses  the  mountains  stand  ; 
But  you  with  long-drawn  sobs  and  wailings  make 
Responsive  moan,  O  my  beloved  trees  ! 

Upon  the  Shore. 
I  said  to  the  wave  : 

Why  with  such  passionate  kisses  meet  the  rock  ? 
Canst  thou  not  see  it  is  insensible  ? 
Thy  wooing  warm, 

The  gentle  words  thou'rt  ever  murmuring 
Are  lost  upon  the  shore's  rude  masonry. 

108 


THE    SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

Kisses  for  roses  ! 

Seek  them,  for  they  know  the  answers  fit. 

Soft  are  they,  and  their  petals  richly  sweet. 

To  me  the  wave  said  : 

A  great  Power  I  know  not  teaches  me 

To  give,  to  give  and  never  to  receive  : 

Human  impurity 

To  touch  and  still  to  make  me  pure  again  ; 

Prodigal,  noble,  simple,  all  unprized, 

I  pass,  forgetful, 

Leaving  this  precept  unto  humankind  : 

"  Nothing  to  ask  :  to  love  for  love  alone." 

The  Absolute. 

That  there  should  be  people  who  do  not  like 
me  seems  very  natural  to  me.  To  please  every 
one  is  a  vulgar  aspiration.  What  I  cannot  en- 
dure are  feigned  brothers.  These  impress  me 
always  as  one  who,  having  warmed  himself  back 
and  front  at  a  fire,  feeling  the  generous  heat  with- 
out and  within,  thinks  himself  to  be  the  fire,  and 
stretching  his  glowing  hand  to  the  flame  calls  it 
sister. 

The  world  is  big  enough  for  even  those  who 
know  nothing  of  art,  of  poetry,  of  beauty,  but 
at  least  let  them  not  trifle  with  these  consecrated 
things.  It  is  the  only  grace  we  ask  of  them. 
There  are  certain  sacred  words  it  is  not  given  to 
every  one  to  pronounce,  which  may  not  be  put 
with  others  without  profanation,  words  which  are 
revealed  in  the  midst  of  thorny  places  to  those 
who  brave  the  pricks  for  the  great  passion  of  the 

109 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

revelation.  Calm  and  reasonable  people  have, 
however,  one  compensation.  They  may  call  us 
mad,  that  is  their  privilege,  and  let  them  profit  by 
it ;  it  displeases  us  less  than  to  hear  them  name 
us  brothers. 

I  am  grateful  to  all  who  love  me ;  some  have 
known  me  as  child  or  young  girl,  others  are  my 
benefactors ;  my  inferiors  believe  me  good,  and 
all  think  they  should  admire  me.  They  smile 
benevolently  when  they  hear  it  said  that  I  am  the 
greatest  Italian  actress,  the  only  one  who  has  in- 
tuition of  a  soul :  this  word  exalts  them.  They 
proclaim  me  superior  to  every  one,  and  no  one  is 
worthy  to  loose  the  latchet  of  my  shoe ;  but  one 
little  discussion,  one  adverse  opinion,  and  throne 
and  altar  vanish  into  air.  In  a  few  seconds  I  can 
negotiate  the  exchange  left  of  my  merit  and  my 
intelligence.  Is  my  intelligence  to  be  the  fuel  to 
illumine  and  warm  theirs  ?  Their  favor  costs  too 
dear.  I  prefer  that  given  me  gratis. 

This  class  is  more  antipathetic,  but  from  a 
lesser  height  I  am  dragged  down  by  enthusiastic 
youths  who  have  seen  in  me  the  ladder  of  their 
ambition  and  come  to  burn  before  me  the  incense 
of  their  admiration,  manuscripts  in  their  pockets. 

The  saddest  is  when  I  meet  old  friendships 
which  time  has  fossilized  into  the  monstrous  im- 
mobility of  the  mammoth.  We  do  not  under- 
stand each  other  any  more,  and  we  mourn  with 
a  touch  of  irony  that  we  have  so  much  changed 

no 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

The  faculty  of  progression  is  very  rare.  They 
knew  me  poor,  crushed  under  the  weight  of  my 
destiny,  and  cannot  forgive  me  for  having  re- 
leased myself.  They  think  perhaps  that  I  have 
robbed  them.  Property  seems  always  illegitimate 
to  those  prud'hommes  who  imagine  the  highest 
ideal  to  be  their  level. 

And  my  associates  in  art  ?  What  have  we  in 
common?  Nothing.  Our  principles  and  our 
aims  are  diametrically  opposed.  I  look  at  them 
sometimes,  marveling,  without  hatred,  without 
contempt,  and  I  listen  to  them  timidly,  a  little  as 
might  an  inhabitant  fallen  from  the  moon  regard 
us  all;  bien  entendu  that  the  heavenly  visitant  is 
always  in  the  wrong. 

The  public  ?  Oh !  the  public  almost  hissed 
me  one  evening  in  the  second  act  of  Frou-Frou 
because  I  wore  a  cheap  dress  costing  sixty  lire. 

I  shall  not  say  a  word  of  the  critics.  The 
first,  the  true  critics,  are  the  philosophers,  the 
poets,  the  romancers ;  they  make  the  critiques  of 
life.  It  was  only  after  them  that  were  self-con- 
stituted the  critics  of  critics.  There  might  be 
much  said  on  this  subject  and  it  would  be  very 
little  worth  the  pains.  Here  as  elsewhere  it  is 
the  spirit  that  makes  alive  and  the  letter  that 
kills.  A  true  critic  is  evolved  only  from  a  great 
intelligence.  For  the  rest,  the  women  folk  upon 
their  balconies,  at  the  cross-roads  or  about  the 
well,  are  time-honored  critics. 


in 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

All  this,  you  understand,  is  very  different 
from  what  I  feel  when  I  weep  or  groan  or  impre- 
cate or  implore  or  pardon  from  the  boards  of  the 
stage,  beauty  and  absolute  truth  in  my  line  of 
vision.  In  that  moment  of  intoxication  I  know 
nothing  but  the  ideal  phantasm  of  the  crowd,  the 
better  part,  the  nobler  instincts,  the  gentle  aspira- 
tions which  vibrate  under  the  touch  of  art,  a 
divine  music  from  a  borrowed  instrument. 

And  may  they  not  be  deceived  in  their  ideali- 
zation of  the  actress  ?  Perhaps.  We  are  indeed 
jiEolian  harps  which  a  celestial  breath  stirs  at 
intervals  to  music.  What  may  be  thought  of  us 
when  we  are  found  sometimes  with  silent  strings  ? 

Yes,  when  we  are  known,  the  instrument  is 
found  toneless,  twisted,  worn  out.  Our  genius 
is  not  in  us ;  it  has  died  away  with  our  voice, 
with  the  fire  of  our  glances,  with  the  enlightening 
flash  of  our  intelligence,  with  the  fervor  of  our 
passion,  prodigals  that  we  are  in  our  revelation 
of  beauty. 

Blessed  are  those  who  can  embalm  their  souls 
in  a  masterpiece.  We,  we  give  our  poor  souls  to 
the  wind. 

And  I  think  often,  too,  of  a  stranger  who 
may  never  have  seen  me,  whom  I  shall  never  see, 
who  alone  and  from  a  distance  ( whether  upon  an 
ideal  summit  girded  with  snow,  or  in  a  sad  marsh 
mid  grey  and  weeping  willows,  or  in  the  dizzy 

112 


THE    SOUL    OF   AN   ARTIST 

noises  of  a  great  city,  or  in  the  austere  quiet  of 
an  ancient  country  home)  follows  my  career, 
my  thoughts,  and  feels  and  sighs  and  hopes  with 
me.  He  —  the  unknown — has  loved  me,  —  I 
know  it,  I  feel  it,  across  the  vibrations  of  my  name, 
and  this  pure  love  which  from  the  frailty  of  mat- 
ter can  never  reach  me,  is  my  frequent  consola- 
tion ;  it  is  like  the  perfume  of  a  flower  which  I 
have  folded  in  my  gown.  I  have  its  sweetness 
with  me  though  I  do  not  see  it. 

But  I  tremble  always  when  one  comes  out 
from  the  multitude  to  accost  me ;  I  know  I  am 
to  lose  a  friend.  Accepting  the  grave  responsi- 
bility of  speaking  to  the  heart  of  the  masses,  I 
have  renounced  the  gift  of  treating  with  the  heart 
of  the  individual.  The  man  who  embraces  me 
has  a  phantasm  in  his  arms.  My  soul,  a  pilgrim 
ever,  has  no  home,  no  roof,  —  its  dwelling  is  the 
whole  world. 

"Why  do  you  come  to  me?"  I  would  cry 
to  the  curious  visitor.  "  The  hour  I  give  you  is 
sweet,  you  pay  me  compliments,  and  I  believe 
you,  more  or  less,  but  still  I  do  believe  you." 
And  then  ?  The  visitor  rises.  "  Will  he  come 
again?"  "Soon."  "Soon?"  "Very  soon." 
A  hand-shake,  the  door  opens,  the  visitor  is  seen 
only  in  profile,  he  is  already  distant,  he  has  dis- 
appeared. It  is  all  at  an  end.  Months  will 
pass  before  such  another  visit,  and  when  this 
comes  the  sweetness  will  be  spoiled,  a  melancholy 

"3 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN   ARTIST 

curtain  will    have   fallen    upon    the   enthusiasm, 
faith  will  be  no  more. 

And  letters, —  those  letters  which  are  received 
with  all  the  fascination  of  the  unknown,  which 
are  read  with  an  ever-perishing  and  ever-renascent 
desire,  those  distant  cities  which  have  left  in  our 
memories  so  many  graceful  outlines,  pure  hori- 
zons, impressions,  regrets,  and  which  rise  before 
us  with  so  certain  and  sonorous  a  voice  from  the 
chaste  mystery  of  the  envelope !  Indeed  they  are 
a  joy.  But  can  one  be  writing  all  one's  life, —  all 
one's  life  be  at  the  same  pitch  of  passion?  In 
the  evenings  a  lamp-lighter  passes  by,  lighting 
the  gas-jets  one  by  one.  My  neighbor,  standing 
at  the  window,  with  his  head  turned  to  the  left, 
watches  with  deep  interest  each  flame ;  when  the 
lamps  on  the  left  are  all  burning,  my  neighbor 
tranquilly  turns  his  head  to  the  right.  Is  it  pos- 
sible to  stand  all  one's  life  gazing  at  a  flaming 
gas-jet? 

There  was  in  the  home  of  my  childhood  a 
cut-glass  bottle  with  little  golden  stars  upon  each 
facet,  which,  according  to  the  good  woman  who 
brought  me  up,  had  been  the  property  of  my 
mother.  The  bottle  remained  empty,  but  of  the 
essence  once  contained  therein  there  was  left  so 
rich  a  perfume  that  it  was  one  of  my  delights  to 
enjoy  it  in  the  dark,  like  a  mysterious  caress — that 
perfume  which  my  mother  had  enjoyed  before 

114 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN   ARTIST 

me  and  which  lasted  still  when  she  was  here  no 
longer.  Since  then  I  have  sought  in  vain  a  per- 
manent essence;  no  flower  grown  on  earth  and 
strained  through  a  limbec  can  give  an  unalterable 
perfume.  The  best  modern  products  last  a  year 
or  two  at  most;  my  mother's  cologne  bottle  has 
had  thirty  or  forty  years  of  life,  perhaps.  How- 
ever, now,  even  it  is  a  little  less  odorous 

A  party  of  artists  and  some  others  were  re- 
turning from  an  excursion  beyond  the  walls  of 
the  city.  Near  the  gates  we  came  upon  a 
peasant  driving  a  small  herd  of  oxen  to  the 
slaughter-house.  With  us  was  a  novelist,  you 
know  the  little  fat  one  v,  ho  talks  so  much  of  art 
and  gets  drunk  so  often,  who  announces  every 
little  while  that  he  wishes  to  set  his  ladder  to  the 
stars,  but  who  is  always  held  down  by  the  weight 
of  his  stomach, —  well,  he  seemed  deeply  to  reflect, 
and  then  said :  "  Poor  creatures,  walking  of  them- 
selves to  their  death!"  But  are  we  not  all  walk- 
ing every  day,  every  hour  of  our  lives,  to  our 
death  ? 

One  morning  in  April  I  had  a  rendezvous 
with  you  in  a  delicious  bit  of  country ;  the  air  was 
sweet  with  early  flowers,  joy  awaited  me,  I  was 
happy;  and  yet  within  me  I  thought:  "I  go  to 
death;  over  these  stones  which  my  feet  lightly 
tread,  other  feet  not  yet  created,  borne  on  by 
other  illusions,  shall  pass,  erasing  the  footprints 

"5 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN   ARTIST 

of  those  who  passed  before  us."  I  seek  them 
always,  those  footprints,  and  question  them  with 
reverent  curiosity. 

Does  nothing,  then,  of  the  earlier  wayfarers 
survive?  Ah!  yes,  indeed!  there  live  still  their 
joys,  their  sorrows,  their  ecstasies,  their  tears. 
We  are  they,  a  little  more  melancholy.  The 
sadness  which  oppresses  our  young  and  ardent 
hearts,  what  is  it  but  the  shadow  of  their  grief? 
We  feel  the  weight  of  the  ashes  of  so  many  dead, 
and  this  is  why  we  grow  silent  sometimes  in  the 
midst  of  joy. 

You  were  awaiting  me,  no  reality  could  be 
truer  than  your  smile.  You  had  written  some 
verses,  and  asked  my  opinion  of  them.  Instead 
of  replying  at  once,  I  delayed  that  I  might  take 
pleasure  in  your  gaiety,  not  yet  quite  equal  to  it, 
knowing  that  five  minutes  of  the  hour  had  already 
run,  that  time  was  flying,  and  that  I  should  lose 
you.  The  sadness  of  many  happy  days  weighed 
me  down,  days  which  one  knows  will  never  come 
again. 

The  stronger  and  the  more  ardent  we  are, 
the  greater  is  the  power  of  love  within  us,  and 
the  more  we  attach  ourselves  to  life.  Is  this 
not  so? 

We  love  all  there  is  in  life,  our  own  part  and 
the  parts  of  others,  the  future  and  the  past. 

Whatever  our  sensation,  pleasure  or  sorrow, 
it  is  one  with  the  joy  or  pain  of  the  universe. 

116 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

We  are  not  to  think  ourselves  the  centre  of  mo- 
tion, turning  like  wheels  and  alone  upon  our  own 
axis ;  we  know  that  around  us,  above  us,  and  be- 
low us  there  is  a  marvelously  progressive  machin- 
ery, and  that  we  partake  as  much  of  the  dust  and 
the  mud  over  which  we  advance  as  of  the  luxu- 
riant herbage  and  the  triumphal  flowers  which 
climb  the  summits. 

This  is  why  we  love  the  dead.  Not  one  of 
these  has  perished  or  is  canceled  from  our  mem- 
ory. Great  heroisms,  great  geniuses  perpetuate 
themselves  and  resurge  under  other  names.  Who 
do  you  think  was  Dante  ?  Dante  was  Homer. 
And  when  beauty  is  gloriously  eloquent  in  the 
face  of  a  woman,  you  think:  Behold  Helen! 
Not  into  dust  fell  those  divine  arms,  that  breast, 
that  hair,  those  sweetest  eyes.  Helen  lives. 
Helen  shall  live  ever. 

Let  us  love  the  past,  let  us  love  the  future, 
unless  we  wish  to  die.  We  are  the  world. 

It  was  that  day  that  we  fell  into  talk  about 
jealousy.  I  assured  you  that  I  was  not  jealous, 
a  little  as  said  St.  Theresa,  "I  die  lest  I  die." 
Jealousy  is  of  its  nature  sensual,  and  this  is  why 
we  say  "jealous  as  a  tiger  or  a  hyena."  But  when 
love  is  elevated  to  the  great  heights  of  sentiment, 
jealousy  does  not  exist.  We  love  God  and  are 
not  jealous  of  Him. 

If  I  were  disposed  to  jealousy,  I  should  feel 

117 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

it  most  for  the  breast  that  had  borne  and  had 
nourished  my  beloved,  and  then  for  the  first  ob- 
jects which  had  struck  his  imagination  —  his  toys, 
his  baby-clothes,  the  playfellows  whom  he  first 
loved ;  and  then  for  the  house  in  which  he  lived, 
the  paths  he  frequented,  his  favorite  poets,  his 
regretted  dead,  and  finally  those  persons  whom 
he  did  not  yet  know,  but  whom  he  should  know, 
who  should  enter  and  make  part  of  his  life,  have 
place  in  his  heart,  give  him  amusement  or  inter- 
est, make  him  weep  or  smile,  curse  or  bless. 
Jealous  of  a  woman?  Well,  perhaps,  for  a  mo- 
ment. But  what  woman  could  wholly  possess 
him,  and  forever?  Death  only — and  of  her,  of 
her  indeed  I  could  be  jealous! 

But  love  has  sometimes  vanquished  death; 
has  always  vanquished  when  a  supreme  genius 
lends  love  its  wings.  Death  has  laid  low  the 
beautiful  bodies  of  Atala  and  Juliet,  love  has 
made  their  spirits  immortal. 

Think  of  Sappho's  triumph!  For  centuries 
her  obscure  rivals  sleep  in  oblivion,  she  only  pos- 
sesses Phaon. 

This  is  my  understanding  of  jealousy:  to 
contest  my  beloved  not  with  a  wretched  woman, 
but  with  nature,  with  eternity.  Can  you  conceive 
anything  more  sublime?  Consider:  they  have 
lowered  the  loved  one  in  the  dark  grave,  they 
have  covered  him  with  flowers,  they  have  recited 
over  him  the  prayers  of  the  dead,  they  have  given 

118 


THE    SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

him  their  last  farewell,  they  have  said:  "He  is 
dead."  The  mother  weeps  ;  the  relatives  prepare 
their  mourning;  friends  think:  "We  shall  see 
him  no  more";  they  are  all  resigned.  But  she — 
that  sublime  mistress — descends  into  the  sepul- 
chre, takes  the  body,  presses  it  to  her  breast, 
infuses  into  it  a  new  soul,  and,  for  the  frail  life 
lost,  offers  him  an  eternal  being.  He  is  hers  at 
last,  and  hers  alone !  They  will  soar  through  the 
world  above  all  human  loves,  above  all  human 
joys,  and  posterity — those  late-comers — will  still 
speak  of  their  love,  and  bold  or  timid  youth  will 
repeat  with  jealous  wonder  the  two  names  im- 
mortally conjoined. 

No,  I  will  not  be  jealous  until  I  feel  that  I 
can  love  better  than  any  other.  To  give  with- 
out asking,  without  receiving,  without  hoping 
anything,  this  for  a  proud  heart  is  the  greatest 
voluptuousness. 

Poor  Marie  Bashkirtseff!  Her  proud  aim 
was  to  reach  such  a  grade  of  celebrity  that  she 
should  attract  all  glances  when  she  entered  a 
room. 

But  when  a  whole  room  and  a  theatre  and  a 
city  acclaims  me,  I  shrink  and  hide  myself.  No, 
this  is  not  yet  what  I  wish  ! 

I  would — I  speak  it  to  you  softly  and  mys- 
teriously—  I  would  conquer  Her  whom  alone  I 
recognize  as  my  rival. 

The  tumult  of  applause   gives   me   not  the 

119 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

smallest  part  of  that  radiant  joy  which  would  be 
mine  did  I  but  know  that  I  should  be  loved  and 
desired  beyond  the  grave,  forever.  Do  you  un- 
derstand ?  Could  I  be  sure  that  a  hundred  years 
from  now  a  soul  would  feel  what  I  feel,  as  I  feel 
it,  and  that  such  sympathy,  repairing  time,  should 
meet  me  across  the  bounds  and  mystery  of 
death,  this,  this  would  be  my  love,  my  ambi- 
tion !  Not  a  stage,  not  a  public  —  No  !  No  !  — 
a  soul  like  my  own  !  Is  not  this  the  resurrection 
and  the  life  ? 

Meditations  under  the  elms. 

In  this  world,  to  love  the  invisible  soul- 
mate,  the  dear,  the  dreamed-of  one,  the  unknown, 
the  unattainable,  whom  we  shall  never  meet, 
or  to  love  in  fractions  —  to  love,  that  is,  those 
portions  which  it  is  permitted  us  to  attain,  to 
gather  these  like  precious  gems,  to  make  a  circle 
of  them,  of  which  we  may  say,  this  is  intelli- 
gence, this  sentiment,  this  beauty,  this  genius, 
and  upon  such  separate  pearls  to  recite  the 
rosary  of  our  devotion, — which  is  to  be  pre- 
ferred ? 

The  first  theory  is  the  more  ideal,  the  second 
the  more  human.  But  what  is  humanity  ?  Am 
not  I  a  member  of  humanity,  and  why  shall  I 
acknowledge  in  others  a  greater  right  than  mine 
to  determine  which  is  the  better  life  ?  The  sole 
duty  which  man  owes  to  men  is  not  to  disturb 

1 20 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

natural  laws.  Really,  who  can  be  more  right 
than  we  ourselves  ? 

What  have  men  done  for  truth  except  invent 
systems?  In  philosophy,  in  religion,  in  morals, 
in  art,  in  science,  everything  has  been  filtered 
through  systems,  but  all  the  evangels  and  all  the 
treatises  reveal  us  nothing  which  we  did  not 
already  know,  which  we  have  not  already  felt 
surge  through  our  spirits,  quiver  in  our  nerves. 

Every  system  makes  a  road,  not  one  assures 
its  limits. 

Systems  circumscribe  ideals  within  given 
forms,  and  the  need  of  the  ideal  is  the  absolute. 
Until  this  is  shown  me,  I  shall  continue  to  be- 
lieve that  the  first  duty  of  man  is  research, 
ascent,  slow,  but  sure  and  free. 

Since  in  theory  everything  is  ideal,  and  in 
practice  nothing  is  so,  to  love  and  to  cultivate 
our  souls  is  the  best  employment  of  time  for 
each  and  every  one  of  us.  It  is  an  error  to  seek 
our  happiness  from  others.  The  course  of 
supreme  happiness  goes  rather  from  us  to  others. 

What  physical  pleasure  does  not  pall  ?  It  is 
well  that  it  is  so.  Eternity  of  pleasure  is  due  the 
spirit,  and  we  are  spiritual.  Two  eyes,  two 
hands,  two  feet,  a  mouth  to  eat,  ears  to  hear 
withal,  who  possesses  not  these  and  who  com- 
bines them  not  for  the  increase  of  his  own  proper 
delight? 

But  what  is  there  in  common  between  such 

121 


THE   SOUL    OF  AN  ARTIST 

pleasures  and  ours?  There  exists  in  nature  a 
mysterious  sense  which  reveals  itself,  and  that 
hardly,  to  certain  particularly  responsive  fibres  of 
poets  and  seers,  and  which  the  masses  ignore  in 
the  same  way  that  inner  chains  of  mountains  and 
people  of  wood  and  grotto  would  deny  the  echo 
not  conceded  them.  But  as  our  way,  so  our  hap- 
piness, and  is  not  our  duty  plain  —  Ascoltare  la 
Voce  (  Listen  to  the  Voice)? 

Time  presses,  let  us  be  up  and  doing. 

I  regret  the  years  and  powers  lost.  It  seems 
to  me  that  my  mind  now  divests  itself  of  old 
trappings,  throwing  aside  old  rags  of  being,  and 
rises  to  the  sight  of  purer  heavens  succeeding 
one  another  with  promises  of  yet  unheard  of  joys. 

From  my  earliest  reading  I  recall  the  legend 
of  a  fairy  condemned  to  live  always  alone  in  a 
splendid  palace.  All  the  beauties  of  art  adorned 
her  dwelling,  and  nature  herself  was  present  in 
the  ample  and  marvelous  gardens.  But  the  fairy 
longed  for  another  self;  love's  natural  instinct 
made  her  long  for  a  being  made  in  her  likeness 
and  image  for  whom  to  be  beautiful.  But  this 
should  not  be.  Not  only  should  we  not  seek 
from  our  inferiors,  not  even  from  among  our 
equals  or  superiors  should  we  seek  that  greatest 
ideal,  the  fusion  of  souls.  A  soul  which  loses 
itself  in  another  is  at  rest,  and  ends  its  mission. 
Our  scope  should  be  much  higher. 

122 


THE    SOUL    OF   AN    ARTIST 

You  said  to  me  (  Lawrence,  I  speak  to  you  in 
the  very  nakedness  of  my  soul  robbed  of  all  its 
illusions,  you  know  this  )  :  "  Let  us  be  united  ; 
we  are  made  for  this."  Did  you  think  of  this 
union  ?  For  we  are  united,  —  united  as  no  other 
two  human  beings,  in  spite  of  distance  and  deser- 
tion, in  the  absence  of  all  joy,  all  communication. 
The  principle  alone  is  ideal,  and  we  are  united  in 
principle.  What  other  advantage  could  our  love 
have  brought  us  ?  We  are  united  in  all  we  have 
loved  together,  in  our  common  aspirations,  and 
because  we  did  not  close  our  love  within  our- 
selves but  set  it  free  to  all  things  beautiful  and 
immortal. 

The  world  is  in  danger,  threatened  by  mon- 
strous struggles.  It  is  the  hour  of  sursum  corda. 
And  just  because  all  idols  are  beaten  down  and  all 
standards  despised,  just  because  faith  is  no  more, 
we  will  believe.  Because  we  have  searched  the 
cold  souls  of  sceptics  we  feel  proudly  the  fervor 
of  our  own,  and  we  will  believe  that  it  is  not  the 
ideal  that  falls,  but  only  the  powers  of  man. 

The  ideal  does  not  fall,  if  by  the  ideal  is 
meant  that  grasp  of  personal  good  and  that  dis- 
passionate admiration  of  the  good  that  exists  out- 
side of  us  :  to  feel  ourselves  happy  for  this  alone, 
that  good  exists. 

What  hatefulness,  what  misfortune,  can  can- 
cel the  facts  of  beauty  and  happiness  ? 

Wild   longings    spring    suddenly    from    the 

123 


THE   SOUL    OF   AN   ARTIST 

shades  of  barbarous  ancestry,  rise  and  proclaim 
the  rights  of  our  race.  I  hear  coming  from  dis- 
tant mirages  of  light  the  voices  of  my  precur- 
sors, of  my  soul's  kinsmen,  which  incite  and 
reassure  me.  Who  are  they  ?  I  see  them  not : 
warriors,  princes,  poets,  martyrs  for  love,  heroes 
of  thought,  or  poor  and  humble  people,  poor 
souls  having  dwelt  far  from  any  fecundatory  sun, 
unknown,  uncomprehended,  debased  or  great  in 
the  strength  of  the  love  which  consumed  them, — 
they  all  have  a  blazonry  that  I  recognize  as  mine. 
They  say  to  me :  "  Beauty  is  eternal,  believe 
in  her!" 

Everything  lies  here  —  is  it  not  so?  —  in  under- 
standing beauty,  in  having  the  soul  to  understand 
her  in  all  her  manifestations,  and  in  not  subject- 
ing her  to  the  miserable  and  vulgar  thing  called 
pain. 

"  The  world  is  hateful,"  says  the  sceptic  of 
the  arid  heart,  "  because  I  have  suffered."  No, 
the  world  is  beautiful  because  all  sorrows  lend 
themselves  to  a  plan  infinitely  ideal. 

Great  actors,  when,  from  the  exigences  of  a 
drama,  they  must  accept  a  small  or  antipathetic 
part,  play  their  mean  role  with  the  same  ardor, 
the  same  conscientiousness,  the  same  perfection 
as  they  do  the  heroic.  The  pity  is  that  there  are 
so  few  great  actors  either  upon  the  stage  or  in 
life. 


124 


THE    SOUL   OF   AN    ARTIST 

Imagine  how  harmonious  existence  would  be 
if  each  one  of  us  undertook  to  fulfil  well  the 
duty  for  which  nature  brought  him  forth !  Is  not 
the  fool  perhaps  necessary  to  the  man  of  intel- 
lect, as  the  cruel  to  the  generous,  the  deformed 
to  the  perfect? 

Those  stars  which  most  palpitate  are  thought 
the  most  beautiful  of  all.  If  the  greater  part  of 
men  suffer  it  is  because  they  do  not  feel  enough. 
They  feel  pain,  which  is  a  low  grade  of  sensibility, 
and  do  not  feel  beauty,  which  is  its  coronation. 

The  man  capable  of  understanding  beauty  in 
its  most  intimate  and  most  complex  signification 
will  little  heed  a  headache,  and  he  who  possesses 
the  rare  gift  of  creation,  giving  birth  to  a  work 
of  art,  can  control  the  agony  of  his  heart.  Pain, 
like  pleasure,  is  only  a  means  of  life:  the  effects 
follow  soon  or  late,  the  cause  abides  sole  and 
immortal. 

But  these  are  not  the  words  now  current  in 
the  world.  We  are  like  the  early  Christians, —  our 
religion  is  persecuted  and  derided.  We  have 
need  to  hide  ourselves  sometimes;  we  live  in 
catacombs  and  have  our  watchword.  The  cult 
of  our  God  has  taken  refuge  at  a  little  altar,  at  a 
bare  sacramental  table,  palely  lit  with  candles, 
among  scant  flowers,  without  incense,  without 
attendant  hosanna-singing  choirs,  but  if  lives,  it 
lives,  it  must  suffice  for  our  hopes.  If  we  are  not 
happy,  no  matter,  others  will  be  so. 

125 


THE   SOUL   OF   AN   ARTIST 

I  have  not  been  in  bed  tonight.  I  have  re- 
read these  pages,  thinking  of  You  who  inspired 
them  and  who  perhaps  will  see  them,  perhaps 
will  read  them,  so  far  distant  from  me 

I  open  the  window,  and  above  the  horizon  a 
rosy  flush  gladdens  the  eyes,  vigil-weary.  Day 
breaks ! 

Little  loves,  little  sorrows,  little  cares  of  little 
souls,  how  they  all  vanish  before  the  light! 
Arise,  my  soul,  on  through  thorns  and  brambles, 
or  through  flowers,  even  on  up  to  the  stars !  This 
is  my  last  word. 


126 


DATE  DUE 


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